

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 




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USTIC-* 




V 



BY 



wf T. CHANDLER, M. D. 



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JUDGE YE NOT MAN BY HIS FAITH, 

BUT RATHER BY HIS DEEDS ; 
THE PUREST MEN WHO'VE LIVED ON EARTH 

ARE DAMNED BY ALL THE CREEDS. 







LOUISVILLE, KY. 

PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR BY JOHN P. MORTON AND COMPANY. 

1883 






copybighted 

By W. T. Chandler. 

1883 



PREFACE. 



In offering this little volume of Rustic Rhymes to the 
public, we are instigated by the advice of a small circle 
of special friends, from whom we expect nothing but the 
kindest reception regardless of any literary merit that may 
attach to the book per se. If, however, it should fall into 
the hands of strangers, we can not hope for the same leni- 
ency. Its many imperfections will necessarily call forth 
adverse criticisms, as perhaps none of the poems are above 
dull mediocrity. 

The world can never excuse the unpardonable vanity 
of the poet presumptive, who rushes into print with the 
crazy infatuation that poets, like mushrooms, are born of 
moonlight and vapor, fed upon nothing, and reared in a 
single night. 

The partial flattery of friends is likewise a very poor 
excuse for afflicting a long-suffering and much-abused pub- 
lic with a ragged tome of insipid doggerel ; but still, you 
know, "a book's a book, though there's nothing in it." 

As to ourself — if it be i^roper to speak of ourself — we 
make no pretense to learning. Our education has been 
very limited ; and, though we have the doubtful certifi- 
cate of a medical diploma, we boast no great proficiency 
in Hippocratic scholarship, and yet we have managed to 
eke out a precarious living at its practice. But if our 
youth, illiteracy, and a medical degree are not sufficient 
excuses for the folly of poetizing, then are we undone, 
and may the Lord and the critics have mercy upon our 
soul, for we are helpless. ^y ^ Chakdler. 

Campbellsyille, Ky., April 10, 1883. 



CONTENTS. 



* 

PAGE. 

Introduction, 9 

The Conclave of Witches, 14 

The Three Funerals, 24 

The Call, 27 

The Alamo 29 

Nature's God, 31 

The Protracted Meeting, 32 

1880-1881, 34 

England 36 

The Gravej^ard, 38 

Advice to a Young Friend, 41 

The Child's Prayer, 43 

The Song of the Waters, 45 

The North American Indian 47 

The Fallen Angel, 52 

The Fever Dream, 53 

Immortality, 56 

The Old Moonshine Still, 58 

The Dying Day, 59 

Dreamland, 61 

Departed Youth, 62 

Blushes, 63 

Hades 65 

When You and I were Boys, 67 

The Consultation, 69 

The Monitor, ^ 71 

The American Eagle, .... 72 

I Hold in Truth, 74 

Musing, 77 

Birds of a Feather, 79 

The Fallen, 81 

My Life, My Love, 82 



CONTENTS. 5 

Meet Me, Love, 84 

Come, My Love, 85 

Sing me a Song of Love, 87 

Fools, 88 

Women, : . . . ■ 89 

Know Thou Not, 90 

The Martyrs 91 

Nature's Laws, 92 

Our Days for Fun are o'er, Jim, 92 

The Seasons, 93 

To Thomas Paine, 95 

Modern Justice, • 97 

A Fable, 98 

A Fable, No. 2, ' 99 

Chase by Night 101 

To Thos. Carlyle, 102 

On the Death of a Friend, 104 

The Tornado, 106 

The Fallen, 107 

John Bunj^an, 108 

The Sneak, 109 

Talk about the Golden Slippers, 110 

After the Battle, Ill 

However Deep in Sin and Strife, 113 

Angels' Visits, 114 

If Man Die, shall he Live again? 115 

The Sunny Southland, 116 

'T is but a Simple Lock of Hair, 117 

The 'Pathies, 119 

Ancient Fame, 120 

I wish I was a Preacher, 121 

Love, 122 

England's Poets Laureate, 123 

The F. F. V.'s, 124 

There's a Good old Time a-Coming, 126 

Hope, , 127 

I am not Old, yet I have seen, 128 

The Century Party, '.131 

The Dissecting Koom, Christmas Night, 1872, 132 

Our Creedless God and His Creature, Man, 136 

Predestination 141 

Answer to a Young Lady's Bequest not to tell, 144 



6 CONTENTS. 

Our Country, 145 

The Union, 147 

Old Age in Love, '148 

Address to the Devil, 149 

You ask me for a Song, Boys, 152 

The Maniac, 153 

Kentucky, 155 

Spring, 157 

The Eural Doctor, 159 

One God, the Same 160 

Dying Fears, 162 

The Devil 's Dead, 163 

I Sometimes Kemember, 164 

The Suicide, . . ' 166 

Sectarianism, 167 

Yes, I'm a "Corn-Cracker," 172 

Why grow Sad wearily Thinking, 178 

The Slanderer, 175 

The Abandoned, 176 

Ireland 178 

The Home of the Poet, 180 

Defeat 182 

How Pleasant is the Dreaming, 188 

Sweet Sixteen, 184 

The Condor of the Andes, 185 

There was once a Little Fledgeling 186 

Let us be Merry while we Live, 187 

To the Louisville Medical College, 188 

O ! Ye Who with Long Faces, 191 

Be Kind to the Little Children, 193 

To the Baptist Committee, 194 

Gaze on the Dusky Face of Death, 197 

The Lawyers, 199 

As to the Special Creed, 200 

The Gods, 202 

Truth and Right, 204 

Our Country, and Our Country's Flag, 206 

Wild 'Oats, 208 

The Pilgrim Fathers, 209 

We have Met and we have Parted, 210 

On receiving Notice of Excommunication, 212 

Oh! Our Boys Dream of Joys, 213 



CONTENTS. 7 

A Toast— The Wine, 214 

A Toast — Woman and Wine, 215 

To Robert Ingersoll, 215 

For Hearts that are Leal and True, 217 

Hypocrisy, 218 

The Murky Clouds were Lowering, 219 

We've laid Him away, 221 

Beauty and Grace Men seldom Deride, 222 

The Backward Spring of 1881, 223 

A Cruel Taunt, a Simple Jest, 224 

To the Exiled Empress Eugenie, 224 

Old Margaret Dunn, the Witch, 226 

Oh ! Fill up the Bowl and Pass it Around, 230 

Man alone of Animal Kind, ... 232 

The Devil set his Traps one day, . 234 

Oh! Thou art Beautiful, my Love, 235 

Old Pitman's Church, 236 

The Clandestine Meeting, 239 

Valedictory to Louisville Medical College, 240 

The Dying Infidel, 243 ' 

The Race for Wealth, 245 

A Vision 246 

He wants to be Governor, 249 

A Stolen Kiss, 250 

The Father is Growing Feebler, 250 

And You would Ask, my Dearest Friend, 252 

The Culprit, 253 

'T is a Glorious Privilege, my Friend, 254 

There is a Sleep, a long, long Sleep, 257 

One World at a Time, 257 

The American Slave, 258 

Apostrophe to Death 259 

Poetry, 260 

Doubts 261 

The Suicide's Soliloquy, 262 

A Fragment, 264 

The Dying Moslem, 264 

Epitaph on a Doctor, ■ 266 

Epitaph on a Lawyer, 267 

Epitaph on a Sour Saint, 267 

Reconciliation, 267 

The Old Maids' Jolly Club, 269 

Reply to Mary Ann, . . 271 



8 CONTENTS. 

Mary Ann's Eejoindei", 272 

The Old Maid's Song, 274 

Epitaph on a Pet Squirrel, 275 

The Heiress, 275 

If Nobody calls You a Kascal, 277 

Patrick Henry's Address, 278 

Deceit, 279 

My Mother-in-law, 280 

Money 281 

The Dyspeptic, 283 

Is it not enough, my Brothers? 284 

The Undertaker, 286 

Fortune, 287 

Kentucky 288 

Koyalty, 289 

Evolution, 291 

Inhumanity, 292 

Kisses, 293 

Close to my Breast I clasp my Dear, 294 

, Adieu, my Love, a long Adieu, 296 

The Invalid, 297 

The Tragedy, 298 

Abstraction 299 

The Blind Man, 300 

Nature is like the Stormy Ocean, 301 

Be Kind to the Lightning-rod Man, 302 

Give me Drink, oh, give me Drink ! 303 

"Why should We grow Faint-hearted, 304 

Little Innocent, 305 

The Camp-meeting, 306 

Lines to some Young Girls, 308 

To Miss Mary and her Horse, 310 

The Judgment Day, 312 

The Toothache, 313 

Old Age Steals on Apace, 313 

I Love You, 315 

Epitaph on a Priest, 315 

To M 316 

How Doctors may make Money, 317 

Sentiments of the Young Miss, 320 

A Negro's Sermon on a Theology without a Hell, . . . . . 321 

The Chieftain's Grave, . 323 

Nihilism, 324 



lusTic * Rhymes. 



INTRODUCTION. 

Each nation, grand, has its constitution 
Circumventing its civic institution ; 
Each church its learned dogma and creed, 
Wherein the orthodox are agreed. 
Some ruling spirit seems to exact 
Obedience from life in every act. 
Its magic wand, with touch sublime. 
Shapes all the destinies of time 
And guides the iron wheel of fate 
O'er society, o'er church and state. 
As to constitution, who'll blame one. 
We 've had no time yet to frame one ; 
And should we imitate our friends, 
'T would surely serve some selfish ends. 

As to politics, we '11 have none ; 
Very small's the machine we run. 
We have a fiiith that can abide 
The nation's and the people's pride ; 
Tho' we've seen, in our day at least, 
The purest minds are most modest, 
But the loud-bellowing patriots 
Are wont to sop ofiicial pots. 
All their glorv, in the outcome, 

2 (9) 



10 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Is measured by its pabulum, 

The memories of our illustrious dead 

Are transformed into meat and bread, 

Eulogiums from pompous asses 

Intended to enthuse the masses, 

All demagogues' artful device. 

Baiting the emoluments of office. 

We'll keep ourself in statu quo, 

And watch the winds which way they blow- 

Peradventure even we may ride 

To glory on some popular tide, 

Yellow fever or repudiation, 

Or perhaps from Buncombe station. 

When fiercest factions rend the skies, 

Fame nabs the unknown for compromise ; 

Glory reigns in caucus disorders. 

Where party machines trim the borders. 

And hungry asses stand and bray, 

Kick, and pull for corn and hay. 

Fame falls, by mere chance directed, 

Like euchre on bowers, unexpected ; 

Who can predict official fatness 

Yet in store for coming greatness ? 

But for ourself we '11 be content, 

Justice of Peace or President. 

As to religion, we are emphatic, 
Not of that class you call fanatic ; 
We think 't enough to mortals given 
That all men should get to heaven. 
As to a hell, 't is a disgrace 
To any god, of any race. 
Inspired by priestly hate and fears 
To extort toll from human tears. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 11 

As to the pi'iest, liis is a trade 

By which he gets his meat and bread; 

The living taxed, the dead belied, 

To feast his pleasure and his pride. 

We scorn all theologic prating. 

All schismatic hypothecating; 

Ev'ry dogma and ev'ry creed 

Is a hybrid of priestly breed — 

A mongrel of the human race. 

Fathered by superstition base. 

We extend to all a cordial hand. 

For God's glory or good of man. 

We would not quench the hope so dear 

That stays one grief or dries one tear ; 

We 'd only chain the foul vampires 

Who feast upon human desires. 

Nor will we ever barb a dart 

'Gainst the religion of the heart. 

Sacred are all its hopes and fears, 

Sacred are all its smiles and tears. 

The tenderest chords that thrill the heart. 

The deepest wounds, the keenest smart ; 

Nor would we laugh the hopes to scorn 

Where immortality is born. 

But, when hypocrisy dons its war-paints, 

We '11 ask the credentials of the saints. 

If 't is not ungenerous, we shall expect 

The sheets well balanced for the elect. 

Where Heaven has little directed. 

Surely Heaven has little expected. 

The frailties of animated sod 

Are measured by the mercies of God, 

And not by that o'er-righteous clan 

Who 've less patience than God with man. 



12 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

We 'd teach mankind a higher truth 
Than poisoning minds of tender youth ; 
Leaving the church's vapory brood, 
Attend strictly to human good ; 
Leave all schisms to the priestly clan, 
Ours a higher God and nobler man. 

As to society, we are non-committal 
On which side we intend to whittle. 
There is, no doubt, some unmixed good 
In patrician or plebeian blood. 
But if life 's a picture funny, 
'T is an aristocrat short of money ; 
Too proud to beg, to work 's a shame. 
His stock in trade 's his family name. 
Scorning with disdainful smile 
The wicked world's deceitful guile. 
His great grandpa w'ent to Congress, 
Or at least was Justice o' the Peace ; 
Hence he boasts a title, you see. 
With the honored suffix F. F.V. 

Scarce less ludicrous for indictment, 
Who reaps the wealth of excitement — 
Perhaps 't was gold, at least 't was oil, 
Found by accident on his soil ; 
And thus by luck, and not pursuance, 
He leaps from poverty to affluence. 
His rustic lass doffs linsey for silk. 
And churns piano instead of milk. 
The mother, o'er proud, as she ought to, 
Hunts a foreign count for her daughter; 
Or lavishes half of the farm 
To get the family a coat of arm. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 13 

Ah! menial pride of foolish men, 
One blood courses thro' every vein ; 
Liberty should e'er be your pride, 
With equal rights to none denied. 
He 's the weakest vassal of earth 
Who 's no grandeur but titled birth — 
The purple blood of royal scrub. 
As thin as soapsuds in a tub ; 
As well had the ass delight to trace 
The genealogy of his race, 
Or monkey boast the creative design 
That made a man without a mind. 
True manhood is the gift of heaven 
No father to his son has given, 
Not sniould'ring flames of waning fires, 
Degenerate from illustrious sires ; 
A soul that 's free, a liberal mind, 
Ample by nature's own design, 
Proud in truth, modest in worth. 
Such the real prince of earth. 
Then here it is we take our stand — 
Excuse the frailties of brother man, 
For frailties every man betide, 
But wickedness, not frailty, is pride. 
Pride, the mother of vice and crime. 
Besmears the soul with filthy slime. 
We 'd plant virtue in every breast. 
Defend mankind where'er oppressed, 
Unfurl the banner of the free. 
Fight tyranny and hypocrisy ; 
And may we die ne'er misgiving 
The world is better for our living;. 



14 RUSTIC RHYMES. 



THE CONCLAVE OF WITCHES. 

The suu weut down in blackest gloom, 
The night unlit by star or moon, 
The angry storms darkly lowered, 
The lightnings flashed and thunder roar'd, 
The winds screamed like a frightened child, 
The rain poured down in torrents wild ; 
Speedy gleams breaking through clouds 
Displayed the night all draped in shrouds. 
Deep in the shadow of a wood, 
"Where ghost and owlets nightly brood," 
A gray old church stood on a sward, 
Ev'ry aiDproach through its graveyard ; 
Its crumbling roof was falling in, 
Through open door rushed the wild wind; 
The surging storms through ev'ry pane 
In fury poured the hail and rain. 
The sudden darkness streams all bright. 
The church 's lit with unearthly light, 
The flames lick out the cracks among 
As fiercely darts a serpent's tongue. 
Like spectral ghosts guarding the throng. 
The gravestones cast their shadows long ; 
A fitting place, 'mid fitting greetings, 
Here the witches hold their meetings. 

Long days ago, in years far passed. 
Within this sacred edifice 
The righteous had truth expounded, 
Evil thoughts were e'en confounded. 
Luckless the day, its powers strayed, 
A witch, within its walls arrayed, 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 15 

Condemned to death by priestly mission 
And burned by holy inquisition. 
From that day the powers of hell 
Against the goodly mansion fell. 
Old Satan did nightly roaring, 

The priest himself was caught w g ! 

Ev'ry sister who stepped astray 

Was by nature exposed straightway; 

And 't did seem with cause the least 

All their temptations increased. 

Ill brewed the drink the brothers drank, 

Never a drop but they were drunk. 

From bad to worse the day extended, 

The priest was mobbed, the church suspended ; 

The elements given free play. 

The wooden structures fell away ; 

The very air was foully tainted ; 

The rustics said "th' house was haunted." 

Many a story quaint and old, 

And many a scene strange and droll. 

The country legends 'round afford 

'Bout the old church and its graveyard — 

Grand occasion of which we write. 

Satan, prince of darkness and night, 

Brews the wands and mad'ns the storms. 

Blackens the clouds, the lightning warms; 

'T is only 'mid the darkest gloom 

The witch can ride upon her broom, 

When wicked ghosts hover o'er graves 

And demons fly from their caves — 

A much-famed feast, known far and wide, 

Old Nick himself was to })reside ; 

All witches had been invited. 

Famous ones were to be knighted. 



16 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

The ghost of witches long departed, 
Who 'd died in the faith strong-hearted, 
From En dor's witch, by Scripture tossed, 
• To every soul at Salem lost. 
Demons and wizards all intent 
On a blasphemous sacrament, 
Where from skull-cups infernal queens 
Quaff human blood and laugh like fiends. 

Scarce had the day been draped in night 
Or church lit up with hellish light, 
Attracted by the lurid flame 
On eVry wind the witches came ; 
Silently the infernal wenches 
Arrayed along the broken benches, 
And the devil, like one in state, 
Sat where the pulpit was of late. 
His fiendship first the silence broke ; 
From 'neath his arm he took a book 
Wherein each witch, as witches should. 
Had writ her name with her own blood ; 
And slowly, as he called the roll, 
A solemn yea answered each soul. 
Never a traitor could be found. 
And none were missing — no, not one. 
Then 'rose the chaplain o' the conclave — 
A haggard wizard, thin and grave — 
Raising his hands with solemn care, 

"Let all the witches bow in prayer." 
Then bowed each Avench the humble knee. 
And amen'd oft' his blasphemous i)lea : 

" O thou great power infernal, 
Who ruleth in hell eternal, 
Black are thy dismal halls of night, 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 17 

Woeful the victims of thy might; 
Black are the trophies that we bring 
To grace thy throne, infernal king. 
Famine, pestilence, and dire woes 
Koll their sweet savor in thy nose ; 
Demons, witches, and politicians 
Are the engines of thy missions ; 
Hypocricy 's thy sweetest feast 
In lawyer's soul or heart o' priest, 
Depraved virtue 's a hallowed right 
Within thy courts, O Prince of Night! 
We bow before thee, willing slaves, 
Thou filleth the world with woe and graves ; 
Bow before thee with contrite hearts, 
Thou poisoneth life in all its parts ; 
We thank thee for this murky night, 
Thank thee for each infernal right, 
Thank thee for all power leased 
To murder men or torture beast; 
Thou art the devil, we 're thy clan, 
Forever and forever. Amen!" 

Then donned the priest a long black gown 
With flaming demons painted 'round,' 
An altar quickly improvised, 
Whereon he offered sacrifice, 
And fii'st his censer high he swung, 
Filled with all vice and human wrong; 
The curling smoke, fanned to a blaze. 
Inhaled the witches until crazed ; 
Then in the fire the victims, paired. 
By melting flames soon were charred; 
Two living babes the flames indent. 
Stole by a witch from a convent. 



18 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Down came the devil with his book, 
A coal from off the altar took, 
Touching the tongue of his own priest 
Him quickly changed into a beast; 
Then, with water infernally blessed, 
With ceremonial charms impressed, 
Formulized, and with magic said. 
He sprinkled o'er each witch's head. 

Then spoke the prince : " My trusted friends. 
On you my earthly cause depends. 
You are all mine ; I claim the right 
To lead you in this feast to-night, 
But first, by hell's own blazing glare 
You must your fealty now declare. 
Renounce for e'er all hope of mercy. 
Blaspheme your God, and worship me." 

Then shook the hall with gleeful shout 
As ev'ry witch her oath poui'ed out; 
Loud rang the night with wierd song 
As ev'ry witch boasted her wrong — 
How human hopes all are blasted, 
The wells dried up, the fruit wasted. 
How men pine witli disease and pain, 
Tortured by necromantic bane. 
All to delight the conjurer's heart, 
Perfecting her infernal art. 

Then spoke the prince : " 'Tis my command, 
Go spread destruction o'er the land. 
You have the power to break all peace ; 
Go torture men and torture beast, 
Fill all the world with crime and woe. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 19 

Infect the rich and rob the poor, 
And all whom you love shall be great, 
Maimed and deformed all whom you hate." 

ft 
But there was one, this very night, 
First to receive the mystic rite, 
Confined within the gloomy loft 
And guarded by a grim, black dwarf. 
Waiting the ballot to impart 
Her fitness for the witch's art. 

Then spoke the prince : ' 'A sister peer 
Seeks entrance to the mysteries here. 
I '11 pass the skull ; now close inspect, 
For one white ball will her reject." 
He passed the skull from left to right, 
And ev'ry ball was black as night. 
Again he said, "With crime full due. 
Well vouched she comes — the ballot 's true. 
Admit the wench; let ev'ry peer 
Take heed on what she enters here." 

All was ready for the black rite; 
The hall was lit with hellish light, 
The witches all in shrouds were dressed. 
Skull and cross-bones on ev'ry breast; 
A coffin stood within the I'oom 
Whereon was ope a magic tome — 
The famous book the sybils wrote 
Of magic charm and antidote. 
Wherein each witch, since Noah's ark. 
Had signed her name or made her mark. 
With solemn pomp and eldrich brag 
The dwarf ushered the wretched hag ; 



20 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

The witches croaked rather than sung 
The initial song with wierd tongue. 
But time '11 fail me, if not ray muse. 
To tell all the mysteries they use, 
Blasphemous oaths, unearthly groans, 
Cups of skull, necklace of bones. 
Owl-skins stuffed and poisonous toad 
Winking on the unhallowed brood, 
Till 't last before the witches' book, 
Undaunted still by word or look, 
The novice stood in triumph bold 
And signed away her life and soul. 
From her own arm was drawn the blood 
That inked the page with crimson flood. 
Then 'round her neck a serpent coiled, 
And in her heart its venom boiled ; 
The witches gathered hand in hand 
And welcomed her to witchcraft band. 

There was one witch within the clan — 
Most famous witch in all the land — 
A blear-eyed wench, a toothless crone. 
With pointed chin and hunched backbone, 
Never a witch 'mong all the feast 
Could freight such woe on man or beast, 
Could bring such drouth or raise such storm, 
Ferment more scandal or keej) 't warm. 
She breathed on man infected spray, 
And quick he pined and died away. 
When cows came home at early morn 
With broken leg or missing horn, 
The rustics 'round knew well the cause — 
Her magic skill 'bove human laws. 
They 'd seen her brew her hellish arts 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 21 

From serpent heads and lizard hearts ; 
When traveling thro' the swamps at night 
They'd seen her lantern gleaming bright — 
Followed, it lead through bogs and mires, 
Across deep streams, through brush and briars ; 
How oft they 'd ta'en sleeve from an arm 
Or crossed themselves to break her charm ; 
They 'd seen her in the blackest storms. 
They'd seen her in a thonsand forms, 
Moping around dark hollow caves 
Or digging bones from out old graves, 
Collecting lizards, snails, and bugs, 
Or poisonous herbs in broken jugs, 
Changing her shape by magic wand 
As oft as caprice might demand. 

A lad once gave his love a rose ; 
In its leaflet metamorphosed 
Was this old witch, and from that day 
The blooming lass slow pined away. 

Huntsmen, for miles around her place, 
Could n'er urge their dogs to chase. 
But once a hunter and his hound 
Hunted a hind within this ground ; 
As oft he fired his bullets veered, 
Tho' n'er before his aim had erred. 
A silver ball crossed with a heart — 
Such balls uncharm congery's art — 
He straightway fii-ed ; only a groan, 
A cloud of smoke, the hind was gone. 
Then rushed he to the witch's den, 
Broke ope her door barred from within ; 
There the wretched hag was found, 



22 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Bleeding from a new-made wound. 
By her chimney-corner sat 
A big black bug large as a cat ; 
A horse no larger than a mouse 
Galloped fiercely around her house ; 
A hairy bird, a mongrel fowl, 
Hybrid between the wolf and owl. 
Sat grimly, the ashes among. 
Eating fire with serpent tongue ; 
Frogs, spiders, and snakes unnumbered 
'Round her wretched hoved slumbered. 
He raised his hand to strike the fiend, 
But darkness held its vail between. 
As if on an enchanted si3ray. 
He felt himself borne far away ; 
And next he found himself in bed, 
Full daylight streaming overhead; 
The cunning witch would have it seem 
He'd only wounded her in dream. 

This witch was to receive the order, 
Knighthood's most famous star and garter. 
Many a coward and many a flirt 
Have worn its insigna with less desert. 
First bowed the witch in low station. 
Like a queen for coronation ; 
Then stepped old Satan softly down, 
His magic wand by serpents wound. 
And waving 'bove the kneeling wight 
He bade her, "Arise, Madam Knight;" 
Then broke silence with fearful yell, 
As encored the imj)s of hell. 
And flopping around the house blazed 
Until the witches fairly crazed. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 23 

And now the banquet table 's spread 

Where all must feast from human dead, 

And cups of skull and knives of bone 

Are freely 'round the table strewn, 

And only blood, but not of beast. 

Is consecrated for the feast. 

Old Nick presides with heart content, 

And passes 'round the sacrament. 

When all were served he raised a skull 

With briny gore still dripping full, 

And ere he drank offered a toast 

To all the witches and the ghost ; 

Then to his lips he pressed the cup 

And drank till ev'ry drop dried up ; 

Ordered the tables cleared at once 

And ev'ry witch out to the dance ; 

As for music to warm their legs 

And stir the witches on their pegs. 

An orchestra from Fiddler's Green 

Imported special for this scene ; 

A hundred fiddlei's cross'd their bows, 

A hundred witches quickly rose ; 

And to and fro the wenches jirance, 

The Devil leading in the dance. 

And as the stormy night wore on 

The dancers kept their pace till morn. 

Till rising sun with silver ray 

Rolled back the dusky clouds from day ; 

With the gray streaks that pierced the gloom 

Each weary witch got on her broom 

And winged her flight on the first spray 

That fled before advancing day. 



24 RUSTIC RHYMES. 



THE THREE FUNERALS. 

At early morn December winds 

Blew fierce o'er ice and snow, 
As 'long a pompous funeral train 

Moved solemnly and slow; 
Silver casket and hearse of glass, 

Drawn by steed nobly bred, 
A hundred coaches filed behind 

In honor of the dead. 

They laid him 'neath a marble shaft 

Sculptured in lordly pride ; 
As o'er him heaped winter flowers 

Never an eye was dried. 
The great of earth were gathered there, 

The nation heard the groans, 
Marching around his resting-place, 

Paid honor to his bones. 

Music and tears for the funeral hir'd, 

Grief the few only felt ; 
They laid him 'way in a costly vault, 

And left him there to melt. 
Even the man of God was there, 

All dressed in priestly gown, 
He spoke a requiem for th' dead, 

And called it sacred ground. 

'Tis noon, but still the bitter winds 

Are driven o'er the plain, 
The drifting clouds still veil the sun 

Anon with snow and rain. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 25 

Another scene, but oh, how changed! 

Toward the pauper's field 
A rude cofiin in a ruder cart, 

And loudly screeches each wheel. 

Where now 's the pompous funeral train 

In honor of the dead? 
A weeping widow sits alone 

Upon the coffin's lid. 
Where now 's the soft and solemn tones 

Lent by music's sad charms ? 
Only the half-clad orphan's wail 

Within the mother's arms. 

Where now 's the steed of noble sires 

Which with black plumelets wave ? 
Only the stubborn oxen tread 

Sullenly to the grave. 
O, where 's the sacred man of God 

Who soothes the widoAv's fears ? 
Sent by a kindest Providence 

To dry the orphan's tears. 

Not there ! not there ! the howling priests 

Hear but the sound of gold ; 
You '11 find them at the rich man's grave 

Cheering the drooping soul. 
The poor must plod life's downward way, 

Unremembered their tears ; 
The rich man feasts the preacher's ease 

And must enjoy his prayers. 

As the clods fall low on the coffin 
The hollow echoes start, 
3 



26 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

The ruthless winds sweep madly by, 
Cold as the human heart. 

The widow weeps, the orphans cry, 
The sexton plies his spade. 

And all 'lone by the friendless grave 
Their last sad rights are paid. 

Eve's slanting sun thro' broken clouds 

By fitful beams was stealing, 
For nature ofttiraes has a smile 

Where man has no feeling. 
Another funeral-scene behold, 

Now from the almshouse goes 
A box that might for coffin serve 

Or to hold potatoes. 

The gleeful driver cracks his whip, 

His old horse strikes a trot. 
And 'long the busy street they rush — 

The throng regard them not. 
On they go to the potter's field, 

No knells with solemn toll , 
The merry sexton blithely sings 

While filling up the hole. 

But why lament the pauper's fate ? 

Unconscious still he lies. 
Nor feels the jolts nor hears the jests 

Nor cares for earth's memories. 
No widow weeps with broken heart, 

No orphans swell her groans ; 
The voice of pride 's an empty show — 

God '11 take care of his bones. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 27 

The rich sleep in their marble vaults, 

And costly mass is said ; 
The pauper rests in the potter's field, 

Where never a tear 's shed. 
The prayers of church, the praise of wealth, 

Will 'wake Dives no more, 
Nor the smile of pity, contempt, or scorn 

Ever disturb the poor. 



THE CALL. 



Where blooms the classic pennyroyal 

Upon the red-knolled hills. 
And shin-briars in serpent coil 

Add to the plowman's ills. 
When August shoots its boiling rays 

From out a copper sky. 
And all the fields are in a blaze, 

The cooling streams are dry, 

A weary lad, with dust and sweat 

Covered from toes to crown. 
With blistered face and torn feet. 

Slowly plowed the field 'round ; 
His stubborn mule balked with mule pride 

Till all his temper burst, 
Plow-handles gored him in the side 

Until he cried and cursed. 

'T is dinner time : at sultry noon, 
Stretched by a stagnant stream, 



28 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

And half awake and half in swoon, 
Strange visions fill his dream ; 

From out the wood it was he heard, 
Perhaps the owlet's screech, 

Or voice of heaven's sovereign Lord, 

"'Rise, young man, and go preach." 

Full soon the theocratic school 

To his pious soul appealed ; 
He quit shin-briars, plow, and mule 

To till the cleric field ; 
A black cloth coat and fine silk hat, 

For plowman's humble fare — 
Chicken well fried for bacon fat, 

And town grease for his hair. 

Mule and plowman yield to the call, 

OflT to conference straight. 
And next we hear them bray and bawl 

On a mountain circuit. 
Full oft he tells by love-feast rule 

About that sultry day 
When from shin-briars, plow, and mule 

The Lord called him away. 

We 've heard him tell this artless tale. 

Served like a confection, 
With smiles and tears and horrid wail 

Exhorting a collection ; 
And, as the mission box went 'round 

Where the elect were bowing. 
We 've thought we heard the nickels sound- 

'T is better far than plowing. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 29 



THE ALAMO. . 

So long as deeds of chivalry 

Their kindling flames impart, 
The heroes of the Alamo 

Will fire the patriot's heart ; 
They fell indeed like heroes 

With lives to country given, 
Their feet toward the foe, 

Their faces to the heaven. 

This noble band of Texans 

Will keep her fame alive. 
With Thermopyla's Leonidas 

The Alamo braves survive ; 
Engraved on Freedom's banner, 

Unfurl it to the gale ; 
Their swords drawn for Liberty, 

Their lives in the scale. 

Oh ! ye who as softly die 
As twilight dews are spread, 

Gaze upon the bloody w-all, 
The Alamo and its dead ; 

Can ye look upon the carnage — 
Look with a tearless eye 

Where Crockett and Bowie fell, 
■ And were but proud to die ? 

Look at Alamo's bloody field, 
Texas' immortal band descry. 

Heaping a bed of Mexicans 
On whom to fall and die ; 



30 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Dying indeed as brave men, 
Crimson with Freedom's gore, 

The heroes of Texan liberty, 
Eternal as th' Alamo. 

Together they stood, together fell; 

No shrink from death's grim jaws 
Where the earth with sacred blood 

Was stained in Freedom's cause ; 
Ev'ry man died at his gun. 

Braved till death each fiery blast ; 
But Alamo fell only there 

When had fallen the last. 

Still around the Mexican States, 

More terrible than a living foe. 
Hover in their ghostly forms 

The specters of the Alamo ; 
They were at Buena Vista, 

Cheering Taylor's immortal braves. 
And when the bugle sounds again 

Will rise from out their graves. 

No marble shaft needs to tell 

Posterity their story, 
Carved on fame's eternal scroll 

Are their names of glory ; 
They will live with patriots true, 

Embalmed in Freedom's breast. 
So long as America's great 

Will share its greatness. 

The spectral ghost of grizzly death 
The cowardly heart o'erawes, 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 31 

But they are wrapped in glory's shroud 

Who die in Freedom's cause. 
The tears of a grateful country 

Flow for its martyred free — 
Bravest men, who thus nobly die 

For home and liberty. 



NATURE'S GOD. 

Who can not see God in the light 

On land or oceaii wide, 
Where fierce tornadoes speak his might 

And dark storms swell his pride, 
Or yet serene in gentle twilight, 

As fades the day in coolly hours, 
The stars that deck the canopied night. 

The glory of the flowers ? 

Ask not revelation for its proof; 

Let the soul itself inspire ; 
Read from nature's book of truth. 

Engraved in ev'ry desire. 
Trace we not, through ages past. 

Nature's calms and nature's shocks, 
God's tender mercy and his awful wrath 

Written on the ancient rocks ? 

Through misty dei)ths of ether afar 
Behold the grandeur of his might, 

His name inscribed on ev'ry star, 
Traced with worlds in circling flight. 



32 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Who has not seen the lightning's flash 
Like daylight thro' broken cloud ? 

Who has not heard the thunder's crash, 
As 'fore the winds th' forest bow'd ? 

Is God not in the ocean wild, 

In lovely flowers' modest form, 
As gentle as a tender child. 

As fierce as the thunder-storm ? 
Oh, let us learn, without the shame 

Superstitions alone endure, 
God has written his eterual name. 

And his name is — Nature. 



THE PROTRACTED MEETING. 

We 've had a big meeting of late, 

Stirred pious and uncivil ; 
Some have seen the pearly gate, 

And some have seen the devil. 
Saintly shouting was appended, 

Of the Lord's own selection. 
And the meeting fitly ended 

With a great big collection. 

The preacher told an awful tale 

About one fiery lake, 
Where burning souls did naught but wail 

Before a monster snake. 
The women screamed and wept by fits, 

Frightened at his diction, 



n USTIC RHYMES. 33 

Till all the children lost i\\^ wits — 
This he called conviction. 

The priest whined a dolorous strain, 

Pounded the sacred book, 
Till windows rattled ev'ry pane. 

And roof and rafters shook. 
Then, howling like the midnight storms 

Groaning through hollow caves. 
Grouped the dead in frantic forms 

A\-ound their shrunken graves. 

Through lurid flames a monster shone, 

Grim, savage, and cruel, 
Seated with flesh-fork on his throne. 

Roasting souls for fuel. 
And noAv commenced a great stampede 

Toward the mourner's-bench, 
Where little children took the lead. 

And followed man and wench. 

With nasal twang the choir sang 

A chorus to the crying. 
And every song was drawled out long, 

To imitate the dying. 
The Spirit fell from out the sky. 

Just like a water-spout, 
As oft was heard the natal cry 

With loud resounding shout. 

With awful yells they charged on sin, 

Beyond all pencil-painting ; 
The fearful shrieks maddened the din — 

Souls half crazed, half fainting, 
4 



34 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Some gnaslf and foam, wildly convulsed ; 

Some like demons dance ; 
Some fall as dead, with hearts unpulsed, 

And dream in holy trance. 

Until at length the preachers speak : 

" 'Tis late ; we must have rest; 
The spirit 's willing, the flesh is weak, 

However much we're blessed. 
We '11 meet again to-morrow night, 

Without divine restriction ; " 

The evidence of grace is bright ; 

Receive the benediction." 



1880 — 1881. 

The old year is dying — let it die 

With all the joys and cares, 
And on the tombstone of the past 

Be engraved with other years. 
Why should we remember it noAV, 

When, like a fading dream, 
We must trust a treacherous memory 

For all that it has been ? 

But there are hours in its memory 
Seared deeply in the heart. 

Hours that taught living lessons 
From which we ne'er can part ; 

Let us strew them all with flowers, 
Where kindest thoughts attend, 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 35 

As we would deck the quiet grave 
Of best and dearest friend. 

Oh ! where are those we used to love, 

Who 've passed with tlie year and gone ; 
Will they come no more to see us 

When all is quiet at home ? 
When we muse in our solitude 

In the fancies of our dream, 
Their faces will pass before us 

In shadowy pantomime. 

And as the shades of other years 

Are falling quickly 'round us, 
Memory traces back the days 

When boyhood's fancies bound us ; 
Many a bright and radiant hope, 

Mingled with bitterest cares, 
Is left engraved upon the heart 

In memory of other years. 

The past, like its forgotten dead 

Who were once its living slaves, 
Is only now to be revealed 

By the marks upon its graves ; 
And the darkness gathering round it 

In the distance grows profound ; 
The mountains tossed, the valleys torn, 

Are but the scars of its wound. 

Then let the old year die in peace — 

Shed no sorrowing tears o'er it. 
It wiU soon be lost in the past. 

With millions gone before it. 



36 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

In other years when other men, 
In turning nature's page, 

Look back upon our ancient time 
And wonder on our age ; 

When the learn'd Archaeologist, 

In delving 'mong our sods, 
Speculates on our sciences 

And fables out our gods ; 
When broken arch and fallen shaft 

Are crumbling in decay 
O'er the graves of mighty nations 

Long since passed away. 



ENGLAND. 

England, our mother country. 

Still struggling to be free, 
Thou art lashed with iron chains 

To the ghost of royalty ; 
Look out from thy sea- washed homfe 

Across the swelling deep. 
Behold the ensign of the free, 

And hang thy harp and weep. 

The dog that serves his master 
May share his master's fate, 

The slaves that wait on royalty 
May sup fi-om golden plate ; 

Far better, like the hungry wolf, 
To roam the forest free — 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 37 

The scanty cruras of honest toil 
Are sweetened with liberty. 

Slaves to proud aristocracy — 

Poor fawning raenial things — 
Thy very bards are forced to sing 

The praises of thy kings ; 
Thy church, like thy royal state, 

Is of regal pedigree, 
Its highest meed to man or God 

Is kingly sovereignty. 

Oh ! where is thy ancient valor? 

Where do thy heroes dwell ? 
Can Liberty awake no more 

The spirit of a Cromwell ? 
Are slavery's chains so pleasant 

Ye wear its iron bands ? 
Is the regal blood divine. 

Ye lick its crime-stained hands ? 

Do ye think your monarchs true? 

Think ye they hear your groans? 
They 'd brain your very children 

Between them and their thrones. 
Why should ye, whom God has*made 

With blood as pure and free. 
Be mere serfs to bloated kings, 

Slaves to sovereignty ? 

Down with your kings, down with your priest — 

Lords of ev'ry degree — 
Who rob the toiling millions 

For their own luxury. 



38 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

When the uations are enlightened, 
Farewell these pampered knaves ; 

When superstition 's buried, 
They 're buried in its graves. 

Awake, ye son of Slavery, 

AAvake, ye slumb'ring band ! 
Assert the rights of equality 

God gives to ev'ry man. 
Pattern after the glory 

The land that calls thee mother ; 
Teach thy kings some useful trade. 

And thy priest some other. 



THE GRAVEYARD. 

In pensive mood I sit me down 

In this city of the dead. 
And muse upon the world around. 
Mortal men, by destiny bound, 
One by one approach this ground 

In mournful funeral tread. 

I see the living come and go 

In search of joy and treasure, 
Thoughtless of those who here lie low. 
With spreading trees high towering o'er, 
Who '11 'wake from their sleep no more 
Till God speaks his pleasure. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 39 

Once they thronged the marts of life 

With busy hopes and cares ; 
And what of joy and what of strife 
As father, mother, husband, or wife, 
'Mid Time's fleeting scenes was rife. 

Had their smiles and tears ! 

Here they lie in moldering waste, . 

In stinking carnage rotten. 
And hither all the human race, 
All driven by destiny, haste 
Where sleep the teeming millions past — 

By all but God forgotten. 

I mark the graves of many dead. 

Some blooming with flowers. 
And sweetest fragrance o'er them shed, 
Where living friends, by kindness led. 
Still linger around this last bed 

To cheer its lonely hours. 

Some amid weeds and briars sleep, 

Hid 'way from mortal sight ; 
They had few friends who cared to weep. 
None their memories sought to keep ; 
But God '11 watch each moldering heap 

Through Time's long dark night. 

I read, engraved on marble shaft, 

Words o' trembling hopes and fears ; 
I knew some faces ere they left 
(May God their souls heavenward waft), 
I saw their friends, in tears, bereft, * 

Filled with sorrowing cares. 



40 R USTIC RHYMES. 

On each white stone 's a name and age, 

With panegyrics o' worth ; 
I mark that death in fiery rage 
Spared neither babe, rustic, or sage ; 
And wealth or rank had no prestige 

Nor privilege of birth. 

But oh ! to see where Faith, dying, 

Carves in stone cold as death 
Fond hopes that take no denying; 
On wings of peace the soul, flying, 
Leaves the world without sighing. 

Nor dreads the grave beneath : 

"Gone home," " Sweetest sleep," " Fondest rest," 

Epitaphs that greet the eye. 
As if the grave as lightly pressed 
As downy couch on weary breast, 
And sweetest dreams but manifest 

How pleasant 't is to die. 

And some have here been sleeping 

Since long before my day ; 
But for epitaphs, in keeping 
With sorrowing mortals weeping, 
I 'd never know these mounds heaping 

Held aught of humau clay. 

Ah ! sad to think, some future time, 

As its circling flight extends, 
O'er my grave, some friend of rhyme, 
Led by chance to death-cold shrine, 
May read upon a slab of mine 

The last farewell of friends. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 41 



ADVICE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 

Young man, though the world seems fair 

When abroad- you wander, 
Place your feet with modest care 

Lest they slip from under. 
Pleasure and its allurements bright. 

With passion's wild desire, 
Is like an ignis-fatuus light 

Leading through the mire. 

Ev'ry where the snares of death 

Are thickly set around you, 
Gory vice with mephitic breath 

Poisons life to wound you. 
The wiles o' wealth, the smiles o' woman, 

Conspire to deceive you ; 
• Ev'ry heart that beats is human. 

And sorely may grieve you. 

The gaudy show of glittering wealth 

Will tempt you to its shame ; 
Of little worth is wordly pelf, 

Foul with dishonor's stain ; 
Far better poor, the humble part 

Nature's wealth has given ; 
The treasures of an honest heart 

Bear exchange in heaven. 

Beware of passion's foul delight, 

Let virtue reign supreme ; 
E'en Satan was an angel bright 

Before he was a. fiend ; 



42 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

The siren voice of wicked beauty 
Enslaves you with its spell 

Till conscience, estranged from duty, 
Leaves the soul in hell. 

Beware of wine, the sparkling cup, 

Oh ne'er become its slave ! 
Tho' beauty's hand should fill it up, 

'T is manhood's darkest grave ; 
Hidden serpents in deadly toil 

Lurk beneath its venom cold. 
Fast 'round your heart they will coil 

And breathe their virus in your soul. 

Beware the aristocratic brood 

Who make labor a disgrace, 
Pride themselves on family blood 

Or ancient titled race ; 
With heart and hand, nerve and brain, 

Meet life's contending broils — 
If you 'd reap the harvest gain. 

You must share the summer toils. 

Beware the world's changing faces. 

Scan the motives of each breast ; 
The merry face is social graces. 

The sober one is business. 
Beware, unless you mistake them 

With their thousand cunning guiles, 
As you meet you '11 have to take them 

Whether fortune frowns or smiles. 

Politicians are wont to awe you 
With liberty's certain knell. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 43 

Priest and pro})hets too would draw you^ 

Frightened by a blazin' hell ; 
But politics was made for fools, 

To officer the lazy, 
And religion in all its schools 

Will surely run you crazy. 

Beware, then, fanatic j)reachers 

Of ev'ry faith and creed, 
The rant of schismatic teachers 

In counsel never heed ; 
God surely is not so gory 

Some to damn, some to elect. 
Yet nature's God in nature's glory 

Ev'ry creature should resj^ect. 



THE CHILD'S PRAYER. 

When softly the night came down 

O'er fields and forest gray, 
A little child at evening tide 

Kneeled alone to pray ; 
And on the golden sunset rays, 

By lingering twilight given, 
The angels bore her simple prayer 

Up to the gates of heaven. 

In simple and confiding tones 
It bubbled from her breast : 
' ' Now I lay me down to sleep — 
God knows all the rest." 



44 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

I 'ye heard prayer, in temples grand, 

Chanted to empty space. 
But never prayer so pure, so sweet, 

Filled with heavenly grace. 

I 've heard prayer, all written out 

To suit the times and hours, 
That flowed gently as summer streams 

Rippling o'er beds of flowers ; 
But all vain mockery to measure 

Proud human glory by, 
To please the dull ear of mortals. 

Never to reach the sky. 

How sweet and simple, yet sublime, 

No human thoughts compare. 
Words gathered from a mother's lips, 

And lisped again in prayer ; 
No wonder that the Master said. 

Ye all have vainly striven, 
Lest ye become as little childi'en 

Ye can not enter heaven. 

Oh ! for that faith, that child-like trust, 

That binds one to the skies, 
Stronger than the powers of death 

To sever human ties ; 
That faith that loves and never doubts, 

Howe'er the skeptic pleads, 
But trusts heaven's generous care 

For all its human needs. 

Would that I were a child to-night. 
Bowing by mother's knee, 



R VSTIG RHYMES. 45 

Lisping again the simple prayers 

Her tender love taught me ; 
But I 've grown old in sin and doubt, 

My conscience pleads in vain — 
Would that I could forget it all 

And be a child asrain. 



THE SONG OF THE WATERS. 

Come list to the songs of the waters, 

Come list to the tales they tell, 
From the gentlest rain that patters. 

To the mighty ocean's swell : 
"Pm a mist from off the ocean, 

I 'm a cloud from off the sea. 
With the wild winds in commotion 

I 'm driven over the lea. 

"I fall on the valleys and hills 

Where the parched earth is dry, 
Seek thro' the soil and 'long the rills, 

Wand'ring the meadows by ; 
The flowers bloom on verdant banks 

And smile at my coming. 
Little birds with joyous pranks 

Keep time with sweet humming. 

"All nature smiling greets me, 
I raise each drooping head, 
On every herb that meets me, 
A thousand blessings shed ; 



46 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

I pour my streams from hill-side, 
I dash the valleys through, 

And on to join the mighty tide. 
Swelling its floods anew. 

"Sometimes when o'er the angry deep 

The mighty storm king rides, 
My surging billows furious sweep 

And lash its mountain sides ; 
I break the chains forged by man, 

I tear his barks in twain, 
Scatter them with the ocean sand, 

Or dash them 'long the main. 

"Many fair-haired sons and daughters. 

And many of earth's braves, 
Gone down in my turbid waters. 

Are sleejiing in my caves ; 
I 've kissed the brow of fairest maid, 

I 've lulled the bride to sleep; 
'Mid coral rocks their bones are laid, 

Embalmed beneath my deep. 

' ' From ocean beds I rise, and sail 

O'er land a misty breeze, 
I fall as rain, as dew, or hail 

Upon the grass and trees ; 
I gladden the hearts of men and beast, 

I cool the fevered air, 
I bring to thirsty earth a feast. 

The harvest follows fair. 

"Now, young man, you've heard my song. 
You 've heard my tale of sti-ife. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 47 

A thousand joys for ev'iy wrong 

Sparkle my cup of life ; 
Come bow yourself before my shrine, 

Come sleep upon my brink, 
Come swear by the will, only thine, 

Naught but water to drink." 



THE NORTH AMERICAN INDIAN. 

From the grave of a buried past 
We view ancient nations in waste, 
Mark each crumbling city and tower. 
The silent records of Time's power ; 
From the rocks and craggy ledges 
We trace the foot-prints of ages; 
We see the life of ancient plains 
Buried in rock, fossil remains. 
Or in dried mummies from the tombs, 
From Thebes' and Memphis' catacombs, 
Read the history of ancient race 
On hieroglyphic'd resting place. 

So, America, in thy hills and glen 
Is buried an ancient race of men, 
Whose shadowy forms and dusky shrouds 
Hang 'round thee in vapory clouds. 
Haunting thy caverns, cliifs, and streams, 
Like specters grim in frightful dreams. 

Where agriculture plows the field. 
Where commerce rolls its busy wheel, 



48 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Where villas, towns, and cities grand 
Spread life and vigor o'er the land, 
Here once in solitary haunts, 
The forest supplying his wants, 
With feud and chase and simple toil. 
Lived th' aborigine of the soil ; 
Child of nature, artless and wild, 
'Mid mountain rocks and craggy defile, 
Here he was wont to make his home 
And shelter from the raging storm ; 
Among wild beast and wilder wood, 
By cataract and surging flood. 
Thro' jungles deep and dark as night — 
Scarce sun or moon or star could light — 
Where silence rears its awful brood. 
He sought his shelter and his food. 

Far from luxury's sick'uiug bane, 

Where wealth and vice in funeral train 

Lead the pomp of regal treasure. 

Nauseate the soul with pleasure, 

Drag man to passion's evil strife, 

Enthused with artificial life, 

The red man on his couch of leaves. 

Vaulted heav'n his palace eves, 

The dog, the bow, and rude rock knife. 

His companions and friends of life. 

No nobler story would he indite, 
Around his wigwam-fire at night. 
When inspiring the younger braves 
With rev'rence for their fathers' graves. 
To emulate their deeds of pride. 
Famous legends in ev'ry tribe ; 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 49 

They told of wildest scenes in life, 
Battle's array and bloody strife, 
How thro' jungles dark and gory 
Chieftain led the braves to glory, 
Vindicated right with bravery, 
Saved the tribe from menial slavery. 

They told of a night, dark and damp, 
A hungry wolf prowled into camp, 
Forced by famine from out the wild. 
To feed on man, woman, or child, 
Maddened with hunger long delayed, 
No more by human eye dismayed. 
But scorning danger and its wrath, 
Attacked a warrior in his path ; 
While victory faltered o'er the strife 
The warrior unsheathed his flint knife. 
But ere comrades drag them apart 
The flint 's lodged in the wolf's heart.^ 

How an eagle, from its rocky nest. 
Soared down from the mountain crest 
And bore away a chieftain's boy, 
Pride of the tribe, his father's joy ; 
Then was grief and bitter tears 
Such as had not been seen for years ; 
Swift a young warrior in his pride 
Climbed the rugged mountain side. 
O'er caverns, rocks, and shaggy cliffs. 
Where fleecy cloud in shadow drifts 
O'er dark defile and precipitous height. 
Follows the eagle in its flight. 
And drives it from its mountain nest — 
Returns, the boy upon his breast. 
5 



50 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

From these scenes of wild relation 
Turn to a solemn transformation : 
The forest has been swept away, 
The wigwams molder in decay, 
The ancient hunting-ground bereft. 
And not a living Indian left 
To guard his ancestral graves 
Or sing the glory of the braves. 

Why so swift the hand of decay, 
Why has this nation j)assed away ? 
When the mailed arm of might 
Alone is arbiter of the right, 
The weak can dare only to die. 
And this must answer for the why. 
They fell as brave men well might fall. 
Fighting for country and for all. 
Despising peace that would debase. 
Dishonor, defile, and disgrace. 

Who blames them if, in their despair. 
They arose from the midnight lair, 
Made villages o'er hills and dells 
Hideous with their slogan yells, 
Following with tomahawk and fire. 
The fury of revengeful ire. 
To stay the march of a nation 
Whose presence was extermination ? 

Who blames them if from ambuscade 
The weary traveler was delayed. 
Eased by the bloody scalping-knife. 
Awoke no more to scenes of strife. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 51 

Who blames tliem, when all around 
Was heard the ax, sound on sound, 
Felling the forest broad and wide, 
Their happy hunting-ground, their pride, 
The home of illustrious braves 
Made sacred by their fathers' graves, 
If they fought for rights there denied. 
The defense of home and fireside? 
And if too weak to stand the flood. 
They sold as best they could for blood. 

Where now 's this ill-fated nation, 
Doomed by Christian expatriation, 
Chased through forest and dark defile 
And hunted down like varmints wild ? 
A few still in the rocky west 
Hang around the mountain crest, 
Where now to limbs agile and fleet 
The ocean impedes farther retreat ; 
For state on state in rapid stride 
Presses them to the surging tide, 
Crowded by a jealous nation. 
Surely doomed to extermination. 

A few more years shall roll before 
These hardy sons are no more, 
Their forest homes and rude war-songs 
Live only in legends of wrongs ; 
Save now and then the scientist comes 
To mar the resting of their bones. 
When perchance in some grassy mound 
Their implements of Avar are found 
When searching among nature's waste 
For relics of the forgotten past. 



52 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Liberty with unblushing face 

Presides o'er this murdered race, 

Boasting sovereign powers to defend 

Ev'ry right held sacred by men. 

Liberty, liberty, bright thy fame 

When in name and action the same — 

Not republics in federal might 

To trample on the weaker right — 

Thou shouldst preside where justice's done; 

A million tyrants are worse than one. 



THE FALLEN ANGEL. 

And now she 's dead upon the street, 
Clasped in winter's cold embrace. 

Her form covered with icy sleet, 
The tears frozen on her face. 

Do you shudder as you pass her 
With a cold and scornful frown ? 

Call society to disgrace her — 
She 's a woman of the town. 

Is there never a heart that's human. 
That can wake a kindred thrill '? 

Are there no pure and true men 
Who contend for mercy still ? 

In life's wicked variorum 

Dwells the moral law sublime, 

And they are friends of decorum 
Who succeed in hiding crime. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 53 

Many a proud and vaunting beauty 

Passes by with scornful jeers ; 
Should dark secrets tell all they 're true to, 

She 'd bow by this corpse in tears. 

Many a pharisee, whose blame 

Looks mockingly on this scene, 
Has smiled on her in dens of shame 

When night held its vail between. 

So cold 's man's heart, and cold 's the world, 

Where hopeless wretches shiver. 
And pride and vice in maddening whirl 

Roll darkly on forever. 



THE FEVER DREAM. 

I dreamed a dream, a strange, wild dream, 

Of famine and disease. 
The fires flashed along the ground 

And flamed from burning trees. 
Where men, frenzied with dire thirst. 

All waited their slaughter, 
Grouping around in mournful groups, 

And crying for water. 

I saw the beast and birds, like man, 

Parching 'neath burning sun. 
Moping around a stagnant pool. 

And dying one by one ; 



54 R USTIC RHYMES. 

And where they died their stinking forms 

Bred pestilence and woe ; 
The living gazed on the carnage, 

But shrank from it no more, 

With lips all parched and eyes blood-shot 

And bodies crisped with pains. 
With stagnant blood and feverish 

Clotted in shrunken veins ; 
I saw the strong man slay the weak 

And drink his blood in ire. 
The salty gore maddened his brain 

Kindling his thirst to fire ; 

I saw the mother take her babe, 

In a fit of despair. 
Dash out its brain against the wall 

And end its suffering there ; 
Then, gazing wildly on her crime, 

Smiling in fiendish pride, 
Drive a dagger to her own heart 

And sink down by its side. 

Some died convulsed, some laughing died, 

The poAvers of hell spurning, 
Such laughs as only demons laugh 

Wrapt in infernal burning ; 
Some lingered long in wretchedness 

Ere the finale was o'er, 
Some dared to still live on and on 

Reserved for future woe. 

The wicked prayed, the righteous cursed, 
For all were wont to die, 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 55 

Some tried to take their own lives, 

Which nature could deny. 
As I gazed the sun drew nearer, 

Its flames still hotter roll, 
Till all the air seemed on fire, 

Scorching my parched soul. 

I saw a grove of luscious fruit 

Ripening 'mid scenery rare, 
I approached, the i^hantom mirage 

Dissolved in burning air ; 
I heard the sweet sound of waters 

Falling 'mid bowers green, 
As I approached the burning air 

Spread flames throughout the scene. 

I wandered long o'er torrid plains, 

O'er burning fields and dry. 
Till last a grove and sparkling fount 

My fancy did espy ; 
As I approached the crystal stream 

To cool my burning brain, 
A demon issued from his cave 

And drove me back again. 

At last, o'ercome with heat and pain, 

I laid me down to die. 
My l)ed upon the burning sand 

Beneath a burning sky ; 
Around me stood, in gaunt array. 

Grim specters of death. 
Like famished wolves they seemed to wait 

But for my parting breath. 



56 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

I saw the clouds now gathering dark 

Upon the blazing sky, 
I heard the groanings of the storm, 

The thunders in reply ; 
I S9.W the drenching rain pour down 

When in the flames I turned, 
But not a drop fell on my couch — 

In agony I burned. 

I awoke J it was a Fever Dream 

That broke my weary sleep, 
Through my own veins rolled, the fir? 

That parched my life so deep ; 
My brain was hot, my tongue was dry, 

My soul in frenzy blind, 
And visions fierce and demons dire 

Stalked through my fevered mind. 



IMMORTALITY. 

Born of hope and born of fear. 

In the darkness stooping. 
We linger 'round death's shadowy sphere 

With souls and hearts still drooping, 
Out into the shadowy vagueness 

Group the wanderings of the mind, 
Call on hope to light the drear'ness, 

Call on faith to sight the blind ; 
Then the soul from out its darkness 

Looks above the shadowed dead. 
Trusts the hope that 's born within it. 

Trusts to hope, and 's not afraid. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 57 

"Who are they with souls of vagueness, 

Who are they with hearts unblessed? 
Ever groping in the darkness, 

Ever groping without rest ; 
If they find not God in nature, 

And their minds are tempest tossed, 
If they know no creeds nor churches. 

Are their souls forever lost ? 
Is there not a power o'erspreading, 

Kinder than the creeds of man, 
A power that shapes all life's actions 

Nor wrecks a soul upon its strand ? 

If perchance an erring brother 

In the darkness should mistake, 
Will there from the clouds eternal 

Ne'er a ray of mercy break ? 
Will the soul, dark and benighted. 

Dwell forever in its niffht ? 
Will the gloom remain unlighted, 

When that soul pleads for light? 
Has heaven forever sided 

With the faith that 's born of fear ? 
Is reason fore'er derided ? 

Is credulity so dear ? 



58 RUSTIC RHYMES. 



THE OLD MOONSHINE STILL. 

In a lone dusky glen, 

From the busy haunts of men 

Far in the forest away, 
Where the wolf and the bear 
In their dark coverts lair 

And jealously guard the day, 

Where the pale moon's light. 
O'er the steep craggy height. 

Peeps in the valley between. 
And the shadows of the wood. 
Like ghostly specters, brood 

O'er the dark, wild scene. 

Where the cool, clear fountain 
Dashes down the mountain, 

Only wild foot-prints intrude, 
'Neath the dark shadoAvy hill 
Is the old moonshine still, 

Steaming 'way in solitude. 

From their lone, dusky caves, 
Like ghouls from their graves 

Treading softly and slow, 
A tortuous path wends 
The wild, smutty denizens 

To the deep valley below. 

Like the twilight's soft dews 
That gentle evening hues 
From silver clouds distill, 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 59 

As noiseless is their tread 
As the homes of the dead 

In the shadows 'neath the hill. 

And the moon with soft light 
Looks down from the night, 

Sporting in the sparkling rill 
As if 't was wont to sup, 
From the old tin cup, 

A draught fresh from the still. 



THE DYING DAY. 

Oh ! how sweet at evening tide, 

When the setting sun is low 
And the lingering shadows glide 

Softly 'round the cottage door, 
When the twilight many hued 

Paints the west in gold and gray, 
The heart with sacred thoughts imbued 

Muses on the dying day. 

Unlike the chamber of death. 

Where griefs and sorrows abound. 
Where friends with abated breath 

Tread mournfully around ; 
But like the gentler repose, 

Where await the sweetest dreams 
On downy couches to disclose 

Life's fondest, softest gleams. 



60 R USTIC RHYMES. 

As zephyrs softly lulled to sleep, 

As fades the memory of dreams 
O'er life's ever turbulent deep, 

So wane the sinking beams ; 
Darkness steals o'er this sphere 

Like shadows o'er the soul 
Weighed down with sorrowing care 

At life's wearisome goal. 

Oh ! may we, with soul and heart 

Moved by love in life's sad way. 
From the scenes of time depart 

Serene as the dying day ; 
And backward o'er life's scenes 

Many happy memories trace. 
As pure as the twilight's beams 

Its even paths of peace. 

When life's waning sun shall fade 

In the dark gloom of night. 
Oh ! may no dusky clouds shade 

The glory of evening's twilight, 
But softly o'er the dying sight. 

Cheered by faith and love, 
May hope stream a beacon light 

From its source above. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 61 



DREAMLAND. 

There is a land, a Dreamland, 

A misty and vapory sphere, 
The sunshine and the shadows 

Are all its joy and care, 
And the sunshine and the shadows 

As gently pass along 
As floats a fleecy cloud. 

As dies a mellow song. 

These fancies quaint and curious 

Are woven into form, 
Long- fading recollections 

Spring into being warm, 
A thousand grotesque figures 

Contend in busy strife. 
Vapory forms of nothingness 

Stalk in real life. 

Life itself is but a dream, 

Thro' weary hours repeating 
Joys and cares, sunshine and shadows, 

Vapory and fleeting ; 
We gaze upon enchanted scenes. 

List' to enchanted song. 
Thro' the realms of nothingness 

A dreamy existence 2:)rolong. 

Hie me away to this fairy land, 
Where beauties resplendent beam, 

Let the shadowy cares of life 
Pass in a fleeting dream ; 



62 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Oh let me drown the grim woes 
To real existence given, 

If 't is only fancy's repose, 
Let me dream 't is heaven. 



DEPARTED YOUTH. 

It fills my heart with a solemn thrill 

To think of days now gone, 
When in boyish pride I climbed the hill- 
And my youthful fancy wanders still, 

Plucking each rose and thorn. 

Scenes of my youth dear to my heart, 

Tho' saddest memories trace, 
And many a joy and many a smart 
From out the past like shadows start 
And meet me face to face. 

In the gloom of the faded past. 

Like the meteor's sudden light, 
Bright gleams start from out its waste 
Of days and months and years past 
To oblivion's dark blight. 

I gaze on youth with abated breath, 

I count its days again, 
Each fading hour a scene of death. 
Each dying day millions bereft 

In sorrow and in pain. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 63 

The past is but a world of graves 

Where untold millions lie, 
And echoing thro' its dusky caves 
Eternity's murky stream laves 

With muffled minstrelsy. 

Where'er I wander, my feet still tread 

On the graves of those I knew, 
From each shadow, faces of the dead 
Meet me with years that long have fled. 

Their friendship to renew. 

Thro' all these scenes one joyous truth 

Believes my heart from pain, 
I'll rejoin the friends of my youth, 
Nor the scythe of Time with pitiless ruth 

Shall sever us again. 



BLUSHES. 

In the vivid blushes 

That mantle the cheek 
The red blood rushes • 

Its language to speak, 
Our passions disclosing. 

Our thoughts revealing. 
As plainly exposing 

Each secret feeling. 

There 's a blush for love, 
Still another for shame, 



64 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

They seem to move 
Like a kindling flame; 

Love has gentle hues, 
Like the fading twilight, 

Ere the darkness imbues 
The dusky night ; 

But disgrace and shame 

Are of the deepest dye, 
As the lightning's flame 

On a stormy sky. 
Each difierent expression, 

So strangely wrought, 
Is the silent confession 

Of a secret thought. 

The blush of modesty. 

So rosy and light. 
Flits and is away 

As the rainbow bi'ight, 
' Tis the softest dye 

On the loveliest face, 
And thrills tlie eye 

With a charming grace. 

Yain and studied art. 

With dissembling guile. 
And wicked heart 

May force a smile ; 
But the forced passion, 

With its silly gush, 
Can ne'er fashion 

A modest blush. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 65 



HADES 



There are no more hells but Hades, 
So modern scriptorians write 'em ; 

When you'd ask your friends below, 
To Hades you must invite 'em. 

The devil too has lost his' tail, 
Sulphur turned oleomargarine. 

The blue-grass grows by the fiery lake, 
And the whole country 's green ; 

The ice congeals on the northern shores 

To cool its sultry hours, 
•Strawberries bloom on the south hill-sides 

And add perfume to the flowers ; 

The orange and the lemon tree. 

The pomegranate and the grape-vine, 

Blossom in perpetual spring — 
There 's been a change in clime. 

They 've drained the bogs and the fens 

From noxious vapors free, 
Killed the dragons and the snakes 

That once infested the country. 

Real ice-cream and lemonade 

All o'er the land are spread, 
Sparkling streams from fountains cold — 

But no more melted lead. 



66 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

The dusky land of ancient gloom 
Is lit with a resplendent glow, 

The ashes of its smothered fires 
Are harmless as the snow ; 

The ill-omened fiends with fiery eyes 
Have lost their scorpion sting, 

Been transformed to fairies bright 
And taught how to sing ; 

Gentle zej^hyrs, rich with perfume 
And fraught with music rare, 

Float the fleecy clouds along 
And fan the fevered air. 

Oh ! a glorious place this Hades, 
That supplants the realms infernal, 

Curtails the devil, quenches his fires. 
And blooms in spring eternal ! 

As the nations still enlighten, 
And progress rolls on forever. 

May they still improve old Hades — 
Old Hades across the river. 

No one knows the innovations 
That'll mark the floods of time, 

The many changes in theories, 
In fancies and in rhyme. 

Perhaps some enterprising theologian, 
With liberal soul and free, 

Will spring a leak in old Hades yet. 
And sink 't in nonentity. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 67 



WHEN YOU AND I WERE BOYS. 

They tell me, old Uncle Moses, 

Despite of all our joys, 
Heaven ain't what it used to be 

When you and I were boys ; 
And e'en hell is changed to hades, 

That the damned may not despair, 
The preachers are howling 'round, 

There 's no more fire there. 

The golden harp of a thousand strings 

Has half its cords broken. 
And e'en our old hallelujahs 

Are by machinery spoken; 
No more our swelling anthems 

Thro' all the forest ring, 
But the people sit in silence 

And by hired proxy sing. 

They tell us the power of prayer 

No more can reach on high, 
That we are slaves to nature. 

And by nature live and die ; 
That Providence is but a sham, 

And hope is but a groan, 
That faith is all a mystic cloud 

Covering the dark unknown ; 

That God, who dwelled in heaven. 

Has moved far off in space ; 
E'en the devil grim and sulphurous 

Ta'en to another place ; 



68 . RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Original sin is all a fudge, 
This falling in pollution, 

And man's an animal uncreate, 
Evolved by evolution. 

It was not so, Uncle Moses, 

When you and I were boys, 
God came down at camp-meetings 

And mingled in our joys ; 
The devil, like a hungry wolf, 

Sneaked 'round the camp to growl, 
And ev'ry prayer sent up for grace 

Made some sinner howl. 

* The women then came out for prayer 

And not for insj^ection, 
And preachers preached for the soul 

And not for the collection; 
God dwelled on earth in those days. 

The church was his Zion — 
The feeblest saint in all the clan 

Could choke the roaring lion. 

And now 't is all for pomp and show 

The wealthy craft are tricking, 
And e'en 'mong the poorest poor 

'T is old clothes and chicken ; 
Prayers are only made to men. 

Sermons made for cavil, 
The pews are rented to the rich, 

The poor gi'n to the devil. 

But, Uncle Moses, let us pray 
One of those old-fashion prayers, 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 69 

And sing the songs that used to bring 

God down from out the stars ; 
We '11 bless Him for His tender love, 

For life's eternal gain, 
For those good old days, fore'er gone, 

We '11 never see again. 



THE CONSULTATION. 

Poor John Smith was bowed with pain, 
Fever fired his blood and brain. 

Sure John's was a very bad case : 
His friends thought no time to waste, 
So they agreed and called in consultation 
Five famous doctors of the nation. 
Men of experience, skilled to impart 
The secret powers of the healing art, 
To environ disease's vapory breath 
And snatch poor John from h — 1 and death. 
They felt his pulse, looked at his tongue, 
Tasted his urine, and smelled his d — g. 
Thumped his back, side, and breast. 
List' to his heart, lungs, and the rest, 
Took the temperature of his hide. 
His secretions analyzed and magnified. 

The consultation room now fairly blazes 
With long, grotesque, and sonorous phrases ; 
What e'er tortures John might endure, 
Not the least was medical nomenclature. 
*"Tis very plain indeed," says Doctor A, 
"We've a very simple case to-day, 



70 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

As iny horoscope so plainly tells, 
The materies morbi is in the hepatic cells ; 
Perhaps a con(n*eti()n is wont to mock us, 
Obstructing the ductus communis choledochus." 

"Tut, tut," res])0Hds the erudite B, 

" 'T is conspicuous enough for me to see 
The patient's liver was never at fault, 
But his kidneys have sounded a halt — 
Acute Bright's disease, albuminuria, 
This 't is, learned confreres, I assure you." 

" Just let me explain," says Doctor C, 

"Theji we can not fail to agree, 
'T will be as plain as 't is to me 
The malady is neither liver or kidney ; 
Had you observed closely you 'd have seen 
A inarked case of hypertrophied spleen ; 
A masked intermittent 't is, no doubt, 
Saturate with malaria in and out." 

" But hold," replies our Doctor D, 

" Surely you '11 all concur with me 
When I 've explained my diagnosis, 
'Tis a case of pulmonary tuberculosis." 

"Ah ! " concludes Doctor E, "a lot of asses, 
To disagree 'bout such simjde cases : 
Just put on your spectacles and look, 
'T is a j)lain case, cancer of the stomach. 
Somewhere close in between 'em. 
The i)ylorus and the duodenum, 
Sciirrhous carcinoma, not gastralgia, 
Benignant ulcer or torturing neuralgia ; 
As to the kidneys, liver, lungs, and spleen, 
Who e'er saw them of disease so clean ? " 

So this world had never known 

What made poor John so howl and groan. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 71 

Had not the miserable wretcli by mistake 

Chanced a vial o' vermifuge to take. 

The worm potion explained the situation, 

And gave to all a ready explanation ; 

Despite the learned doctors and their terms 

'T was only a simple case of worms. 

Thus 'tis the very learned profession, 

True to an ancient popular impression, 

Arc tossed upon an uncertain sea. 

Having agreed to simply disagree. 

They live who 're saved by nature's might, 

The rest are buried out of sight. 

So many a poor wretch in torture squirms 

Whose is a simple case of worms ; 

But his friends are soothed, when he reposes, 

By long Greek and Latin diagnoses. 



THE MONITOR. 

What strange impulse, ever beating, 
To my soul keeps repeating, 

Thou art immortal ; 
This decaying tenement of thine 
But tethers thee to earth and time 

Till death break the portal ? 

Is it some secret thought within, 
Chained by the i)Owers of sin 

In gloomy night, 
Sorrowing for the brighter days 
That 'round it strewed hallow'd i*ays 

Of heavenly light ? 



72 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Is 't a monitor that would deride 
The lofty flight of human pride 

O'er certain decay ? 
Vain creature of an uncertain hour, 
With the breath that gives us power, 

Melting we pass away. 

Far beyond this world's repining. 
Thro' hope a brighter sphere 's shining, 

Seen by our faith ; 
Tell us not our fancies grieve us. 
That hope and faith both deceive us, 

Even in death. 

Surely this strange inward feeling 
Is not false, constantly revealing 

A silly part, 
But from purest motives seeking 
By intuition's silent speaking 

To cheer the heart. 



THE AMERICAN EAGLE. 

Thou, proud emblem of Liberty, 

To ev'ry American dear, 
That eyries on the mountain stark 

And pinions the cloudless air. 
Thou art king of the feathered tribe, 

Prince of the airy domain. 
Where not a single denizen 

Disputes thy sovereign reign. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 73 

Well hast free borii America 

Conceived the happy design 
To emblazon the prince of birds 

Upon her eternal ensign. 
Like thee, proud bird, 'mong the wilds 

She builds for Liberty a home, 
Where the tempest-tossed mariner 

Can refuge from the storm ; 

Like thee, proud bird, she knows no peer 

In all the nations round, 
Nor yet a slave in her realms, 

Lordly title nor kingly crown ; 
Like thee, proud bird, on pinions strong, 

When fierce tempest gathers o'er, 
She wings herself above the storm 

Maddening in fury below. 

As from thy rocky home, proud bird. 

Gazing on the world beneath, 
America from her rock-ribbed shores 

Calmly surveys struggling earth, 
Conscious of her sovereign right 

To protect each western realm, 
The grandest Republic on earth 

Standing at Liberty's helm. 

Proud bird, thou art an emblem true, 

In thine indomitable spirit, 
Thy native courage unrestrained, 

Such only freemen inherit 
From civic institutions grand, 

With no titled lord or slave, 
7 



74 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

All are freemen, {ind ev'ry man 
His country's peerless brave. 

Then build thy nest, proud bird, on high, 

Preside o'er the brave and free. 
Where Liberty's voice in thunder tones 

Echoes o'er the land and sea ; 
May thy course, proud bird, inspire 

The guardians of our country's life. 
Like thee, to build upon the rocks, 

Far above all petty strife. 



I HOLD IN TRUTH. 

I hold in truth that Nature's plan 

Made naught exclusively for man, 

Nothing solely for his uses, 

For his pride or his abuses ; 

The generous laws that give him health 

Spread for all a bounteous wealth, 

The source from whence he draws his food 

Is pabulum for the menial brood. 

The flesh on which his limbs repair 

Feeds likewise the tiger and the bear, 

The grain that feeds his thinking brain 

Gives voice to nightingale or crane. 

Throughout life's mysterious way 

The stronger on the weaker prey. 

Which in turn to still stronger yield. 

For murder's rife on ev'ry field, 

And man himself, howe'er he squirms, 

Is only food for crawling worms. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 75 

I hold in truth, tho' none applaud, 
This world 's filled with many a fraud ; 
Society 's artificial at least, 
And man an educated beast. 
In ages past, when Time was young, 
Ere man had found a tuneful tongue, 
Or language of deceitful guile. 
He wandered thro' the jungles wild. 
To forest dark or caverns deep 
At night he retired to sleep. 
Disputed with the wolf and bear 
The shelter of each dusky lair. 
But not so proud or yet so blind 
To scorn the kinship of his kind. 
Contended with the various beast, 
From the strongest e'en to the least ; 
Tho' often worsted still he thrived. 
And as the fittest of all survived. 

I hold in trutli, of firm accord, 
Nature made man — Nature is God ; — 
Man made society, jwiest, and kings, 
And all the host of titled things 
Who hold their's the fruits of earth 
By rights divine or privileged birth. 

I hold that thro' all nature wide 
There flows of blood one common tide. 
Thro' man, thro' beast, thro' all creatures. 
Elements the same in changing features. 

I hold that, from creation's birth, 
Through all the ages of the earth, 
Where struggling nature still survives. 
The dead live on in other lives ; 



76 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Though wasted by dissolving storms 
Their elements still seek new forms — 
And all this but at trifling cost, 
The identity is only lost, 
However fast these changes be, 
They begin and end in eternity, 
Where Nature its own bosom warms 
And God breathes life in all its forms. 

I hold in truth, firmly resolved, 

From rude l)arbarity evolved 

Came man, crnde, ignorant, and wild, 

Companion of beast, Nature's child — 

Experience was his education ; 

Thence the family, thence the nation, 

Formed at first for mutual defense. 

Then favored ones found opulence — 

Opulence, ease — ease lead to pride, 

Then flung society's gates wide ; 

Wealth, ease, and pride all lead to caste. 

Hence our kings, lords, prophets, and priest. 

Through all the races of mankind 

A few have ruled the world with mind ; 

The lowly herds in serfdom blind. 

Enslaved by rights presumed divine. 

Are bound in superstition's chains 

To kingly rights and priestly manes ; 

They labor in incessant toil. 

While others fatten on their spoil. 

I hold in truth, of proud degree, 

Man is yet in his infancy, 

Even the wisest of our time 

Can boast no more than manhood's prime, 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 77 

The mature Avisdom of the sage 
Willcome to yet au unborn age. 
In my prophetic eye I trace 
Banished from earth ev'ry disgrace, 
And king and priest and menial herd 
All to a barbarous age referred ; 
But 'bove fanaticism and might 
Stand human equality and right, 
Defenders of our destiny. 
Twin brothers of our liberty, 
Intelligence sheds 'broad its light, 
And men do right for sake of right ! 
Then virtue is its own reward. 
More potent than a tyrant's sword ; 
No visions of the silver sjiheres 
Allure men from human cares, 
•Nor roaring hells in grim pretense 
Shock either modesty or sense, 
No conscience educated base 
To bow serf to a brother race, 
But as free in mind as in birth, 
Survives the fittest of the earth. 



MUSINGS. 

Is life real, or are we dreaming 
In this strange, strange world ? 

Is thought just as 't is seeming 
In its ever busy whirl. 

Or are we but fleeting shadows 
Cast on the dial of time. 



78 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Simply to index the passage 
Of nature's laws sublime ? 

When we peer into the darkness, 

Eternity that has been, 
Where were our dusky shadows, 

Had we existence then? 
Who has looked into the future 

In the ages to come ? 
Who has seen a soul immortal 

In its great spirit home ? 

Dark the clouds of revelation, 

Dark the benighted slave 
Who turns from science and reason 

To priestcraft's slimy grave ; 
Yet 't is not science or learning, 

'T is not reason's control, 
But a confidence eternal 

In the immortal soul. 

Is he an impious infidel, 

Dead to all nobler deeds. 
Who can not link God Almighty 

With factions and their creeds ? 
Is he a fiend of black darkness. 

Has he the faith denied, 
Who scorns a vile arrant priesthood 

In its deceitful pride ? 

Then let me be that infidel ! 

Oh ! let me be that fiend 
Who has for God a higher rev'rence, 

For man a brighter dream, 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 79 

Who scorns all fanaticisms 

Nor bows to priestly guiles, 
Whose faith and hope is God alone, 

Not sacerdotal smiles ! 

My secret soul, be not depressed. 

Thrive on what reason gives, 
Read from the lessons of the heart, 

God still in nature lives — 
In nature lives, in reason lives, 

In evidence most bright, 
His golden sun with radiant rays 

Dispelling cloudy night. 



BIRDS OF A FEATHER. 

The geese cackle loudly 

For the gander of the flock. 
Scorning the noble eagle 

That perches on the rock ; 
Thus the human bipeds 

Are oft loudest heard ' 
When they 'd praise the feathers 

Of a kindred bird. 

So votaries of a creed 

File where leaders meander, 
Cackling like silly geese 

To compliment the gander ; 
The loftiest intellects. 

Towering like mountain rocks, 



80 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

_Are scorned simply because 
They are of other flocks. 

The geese smile audibly, 

With rev'rence and respect, 
To hear the old gander 

In goosely dialect ; 
So e'en 'mong quadrupeds, 

The pride of caste's display, 
The jennets think it 's music 

When the jackasses bray. 

The mother dotes on her child, 

And thinks its silly prattle 
But the golden blossom 

Prospective of the mettle ; 
No difference how foolish. 

How wretched or deformed, 
No brighter intellect 

Nor fairer bosom warmed. 

Who preaches innovation 

Is but a civic thief, 
No excellence but the present 

In practice or belief; 
In politics or religion, 

In life's contending shocks, 
The music streams only 

From organs orthodox. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. gj 

THE FALLEN. 

Deal gently with a fallen sister, 

You may never know 
The feelings of deep contrition 

That fill her life with woe ; 
Sad, sad lessons of experience 

Wring the soul with pain, 
Deeply scarred the human heart 

With virtue's improvident stain. 

One glance of scornful reproach 

The ties of hope may sever, 
And deeper into human woe 

Drive the soul forever ; 
One word of sweet sympathy, 

A cheering look unspoken. 
May stay an erring one 

And heal a heart 's broken. 

When human folly fills its cup, 

'Tis indeed with bitter grief 
Wayward fancy sips its draught, 

Repenting tears bring no relief; 
One rash act imbues the stain. 

Heaven alone heeds repenting, 
Tears fall on hearts of stone, 

Society is unrelenting. 

Virtue once from truth decoyed. 

Lives only by natural mights,' 
Confidence but once. destroyed 

Estranges all society's rights ; 



82 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Whate'er motives might inspire, 
Fore'er stamped on life and time 

Is passion's foul desire 

And bloody stains of crime. 

You know not the bitter thoughts 

That tremble in the heart 
Contending with the human soul 

And passion's cruel dart ; 
You know not the secret tears, 

Shed o'er folly's unhallow'd graves, 
When conscience with scorpions lash 

Its miscreant slaves. 

Deal gently with an erring sister, 

Perhaps to you 't is given 
To save a life to usefulness 

And a soul to heaven ; 
If you 'd have an easy conscience 

When eternity's cycles swell, 
If you can not lift the fallen. 

Do not push them into hell. 



MY LIFE, MY LOVE. 

My life, my love, my dream, my joy! 

All my earthly treasure. 
As sweet as honey from the comb, 

The joys of stolen pleasure ; 
Let others boast the marital couch, 

Its sameness and rejxjse. 
The bee gathers sweets for his hive 

From violet and rose. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. g3 

Free as the bees that kiss the breath 

From ev'ry bud aud flower, 
We '11 wander by field and wood, 

Nor count the fleeting hour ; 
'Tis society that frowns or smiles, 

'T is custom that disgraces. 
Nature's love 's as pure and sweet 

As Hymen's own embraces. 

The law may bind with iron bands 

Souls that are sick with grief. 
Love 's no bonds but tenderest cords 

And sues for no relief; 
Tell me not the love 's impure 

That needs no chain to bind it. 
That heaven has ne'er sealed a vow 

Without a priest behind it. 

Too oft the vows society demands. 

And takes without discretion. 
Make marriage bonds but prisoii chains 

To youth's mistaken passion; 
Too oft the rights we call divine 

The marriage bed disgraces. 
Where hearts of ice fulfill the'ir vows 

And meet in cold embraces. 

Love should be free and unrestrained 

To seek its own findings, 
Nor think the looseness of the cords 

Less sacred to the bindings ; 
Where hearts throb warm in mutual love, 

The union is eternal, 
Unwilling hearts are chained by law. 

The union is infernal. 



84 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

MEET ME, LOVE. 

Oh ! meet me, Love, beside the wood, 

Let us renew our vows and praise, 
There lingers 'round our trysting place 

The memories of other days ; 
Where 'neath the shadows of the tree. 

Where blooms the violet and rose, 
We 've whispered in each other's ears 

What loving hearts alone disclose. 

Beside the spring, all moss o'er-grown. 

Cling the grape-vines to the trees, 
The songs of birds, perfumes of flowers 

Make redolent ev'ry breeze ; 
How sweet the spring, how sweet the birds. 

How sweet the memories of the day ! 
The trees, the vines, the leaves, the flowers, 

Combine to chase all cares away. 

NoAv memories back their steps retrace, 

^Fondly review each scene again. 
Where pleasure twines 'round ev'ry hour. 

And only parting gives us pain ; 
Should we meet e'en noAV, my Love, 

'T would but wake anew the smarting, 
The winged hours so quick would flee. 

Grief 'd return again at parting. 

Still there 's a power within me robs 
My heart and soul of ev'ry rest, 

I chase the moments for their joys 
As birds from ofi" a hidden nest ; 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 85 

When they Avould lead me from their homes 

They fall and flutter at ray feet, 
I stretch ray hand to grasp the prize, 

But 't is gone — well-feigned deceit. 

Such are the secret hopes of love 

That 'lure the soul but to despair, 
They flee like phantoms 'fore the chase, 

Which ere you grasp dissolve in air ; 
Ah ! such the hopes of all this life 

Which men pursue but ne'er control, 
But hope itself 's a child of Love, 

Dies only with the human soul. 

Then meet me, Love, but once again, 

The same sweet smile upon your face, 
And I will kiss the tears away 

That come at our parting embrace ; 
Let hell invent its direst woes 

And try to turn my joy to grief. 
My heart will feast upon that hour 

And in its memory find relief. 



COME, MY LOVE. 

Come, my Love, when the Vespers wane. 
Though our parting gives us pain, 
While the blissful moments last 
We '11 ne'er repine o'er the past ; 
Let me but gaze into your eyes, 
From whence the loving glances rise, 
Kead in the aziired depths beneath 
Endearing thoughts the heart would sheath. 



86 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Come, Love, lean on my yearning breast, 
Come steal your arms around my waist. 
Oh ! let me drink, as the bee sips, 
The nectar from thy honeyed lips. 
Ye gods! in truth, and this is love 
Drawn from Elysian founts above. 
Here Narcissus with abated breath 
Could pine over the form beneath. 

Come, Love, with your thousand charms, 
Let me press you in my arms, 
As my soul desires to please you, 
To my heaving bosom squeeze you ; 
Wipe ev'ry^tear from out your eyes 
And kiss away all troubling sighs. 
Read in your very look the token, 
Words of love before they 're sj^oken. 

Let your throbbing heart beat kindly. 
As I 've loved you madly, blindly. 
Loved you with the wildest passion. 
Loved you with thoughtless discretion, 
Loved you, whate'er fate betide you. 
Loved you with your faults beside you, 
Whate'er the world might say or make, 
Loved you for your own sweet sake. 

Let us ne'er dream of the parting. 
Of its heartache and its smarting. 
Let the now be the forever, 
Which no cruel fate can sever. 
That we may not repine the past 
While the joyous moments last, 
Nor cloud to-day with to-morrow — 
Living bliss with unborn sorrow. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 87 

Come then, Darling, to the meeting 
With the sweetest smiles of greeting — 
Smiles as soft, as sweet, endearing, 
As love whispers to the hearing ; 
I 've a secret for your ears. Love, 
It '11 drive away your fears, Love, 
I 've a hundred fond embraces 
And a thousand honeyed kisses. 

Come, my Love, when the Vespers wane, 

Tho' our parting give us pain. 

While the blissful moments last 

We '11 ne'er repine o'er the past ; 

In my arms I will fold you. 

In my heart an idol mold you, 

By all the living gods divine, 

I '11 worship at no other shrine ! 



SING ME A SONG OF LOVE. 

Oh ! sing to me a song of love, 
My heart is filled with grief; 

Love 'wakes the teud'rest cords of life, 
And brings the soul relief. 

Oh ! sing to me of home and friends. 

With glad, smiling faces. 
Clinging in to our bosoms warm 

With a thousand embraces. 

Oh ! sing to me of children sweet. 

With golden locks of hair. 
Gathering 'round the mother's knee, 

As artless as they're fair. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Oh ! sing to me of youth's bright hours, 

Awake its memories dear, 
Those Elysian hours passed and gone, 

Unstained by sorrow's tear. 

Oh ! sing to me the lullabies 
That soothed my childish fear 

When I slept on my mother's breast 
Unknown to any care ; 

But sing no more the songs that fright 
The soul from reveries sweet. 

That fling the shadowy forms of death 
'Round pleasure's moment fleet. 

Oh ! sing no more the woes of life. 
No more its battle's cry, 

But strew sweet flowers o'er ev'ry plain- 
There let us live and die. 



FOOLS. 



Some natural fools as fools are born. 

Some fools by occupation, 
The worst fools that disgrace mankind, 

Are fools by 'education ; 
'T is hard to tell where wisdom end 

And where the fool begins, 
But beware when self-abasements 

Are added to your sins. 

Kings recline on beds of flowers, 
A priest behind each throne, 

And while the twain feast to fatness 
The toiling millions groan ; 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 89 

The kings, the earls, the dukes, the lords. 

And priests of all the schools, 
Would have to learn some other trade 

If 't was not for the fools. 

The fools hew wood and water draw, 

They make the anvils ring. 
To put poAver and wealth on mitred heads 

And purple on the king ; 
But reason dawns upon the earth, 

Let mankind observe its rules, 
All rights divine of king or priest 

Are but to enslave the fools. 



WOMAN. 



Oh ! what will we say for our women 

When the evil days do come ; 
Hope departs from the bosom of man " 

To find with woman a" home ; 
When our minds are weighed down with sorrow 

And our souls are draped with night. 
We turn from the gloom of a fainting heart 

And look to our women for light. 
Women, the sun of all our hopes, 

The bright dawn that forecasts the morrow. 
Nature's balm for the wounded hearty 

A surcease from sickness and sorrow ; 
Let us love our women, and cherish 

All the goodness her nature imparts. 
Nor distrust the truth or sweets of her love 

Transplanted like a rose in our hearts. 



90 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

KNOW THOU :N0T? 

Know thou not one truth at least, 
While you fast the preachers feast? 
Never dream God may be bribed 
With penance by a church prescribed ; 
The rival churches undismayed, 
In bloody feuds were long arrayed, 
In peace their holiest relations 
Are only jealous tolerations. 
The priests, in truth, have ne'er agreed 
Among themselves on any creed, 
But have quarreled, like dogs and cats. 
O'er cut of hair or shape of hats. 
And Oi^ths as hot as hell have sent 
O'er ev'ry faith and sacrament ; 
None e'er denied but that 't was right 
With sword and stake to proselyte. 
Provided only the scourging rods 
Were of their faith and of their gods ; 
Murder is right when for the creed. 
But dire enough when disagreed 
Whether, 'neath crescent in the east 
Or under cross of Christian priest, 
With fire and sword the righteous strong 
Condemn the weaker, right or wrong. 
The slogan cry of ev'ry sect. 
Whatever priest or god direct. 
With lleretic blood be meekness crammed- 
Believe with us, or you'll be d d. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 91 

THE MARTYRS. 

Light your faggots, burn the martyrs, 

Meu of wisdom and of right ! 
For the flames that leap around them 

Will dispel the coming night ; 
Curse them for each innovation, 

Like fiends still hunt them down ; 
With mighty nations yet unborn. 

They'll be the glory of our own. 

They are men who 've dared thro' death 

To guide man's erring soul aright. 
And from the red flames of the stake 

Point to truth's golden light. 
Onward is the march of progress ; 

The great man lives before his time 
To die in shame, tho' coming ages 

Resurrect his name sublime. 

Brave men explore the tides of passion, 

Like frail bark out at sea, 
Among the breakers and the rocks 

They chart a path for you and me ; 
Denying self and self-ambition, 

Leading where conscience points the right, 
Despising dungeons, swords, and flame, 

To bequeath to us the light. 

Sun of Reason, thou art dawmng, 

From thy shining quiver dart 
Rays of truth, dispelling darkness 

From the human soul and heart. 
Till man's free, unfettered conscience 

Measures truth and measures sage, 
And proscription cease forever 

From the glory of the age. 



92 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

NATURE'S LAWS. 

He who nature's laws disgraces 
To his lieart a dagger places, 
God Almighty ne'er effaces 
Nature's laws. 

O ! ye who so weakly languish 
On beds of disease and anguish, 
'T is because God can't extinguish 
Nature's laAVs. 

Till heaven and earth pass away 
And matter back to chaos stray, 
Omniscient wisdom ne'er can stay 
Nature's laws. 

We live by Nature's own respect. 
We die as nature may direct. 
All our actions circumspect 
Nature's laws. 

Changeless as the Eternal Mind, 
Unswerving as the sunbeams shine. 
Life respects in ev'ry design 
Nature's laws. 

Happy he who may early learn, 
From truth and wisdom to discern. 
And in life's broad way ne'er to spurn 
Nature's laws. 



OUR DAYS FOR FUN ARE O'ER, JIM. 

Our days for fun are o'er, Jim, 

Those merry days of yore. 
When out among the girls 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 93 

We pulled their pretty curls, 
Then life in joyous whirls 
Had charms for every hour. 

Our days for fun are o'er, Jim, 

They come to us no more ; 
A thousand joys untold, 
All cast in pleasure's mold. 
Moments dearer than gold, 

The world can ne'er restore. 

Our days for fun are o'er, Jim, 

We are growing older, 
Tot'ring in life and limb. 
Our eyes are ageing dim. 
We are on the ragged brim — 

Life is daily colder. 

Our days for fun are o'er, Jim, 

The friends we used to know. 
With whom in life we started. 
One by one have parted. 
And almost unhcarted 

We are waiting to follow. 

Our days for fun are o'er, Jim, 

And sorrows all surround ; 
But why need we to weep ? 
What has this life to keep ? 
Where our companions sleep 

We '11 lay our burdens down. 



THE SEASONS. 

Now the glad spring. 
With joyous peal. 

Its mantle flings 
O'er wood and field ; 



94 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

And nature smiles 
The live long day, 

The heart beguiles 
In ev'ry way. 

Then the summer 

With genial showers, 
A welcome comer 

To our bowers ; 
It charms our dreams 

With sparkling rills, 
Where pour cool streams 

From shady hills. 

The autumn mature, 

With yellow leaf, 
Dismantles nature 

Like as a thief. 
Why need we start, 

Are we so blind. 
Is not the heart 

Thus seared by time ? 

Our hearts are warm, 

Tho' drear forecasts 
The bitter storm 

Of winter's blasts ; 
We too must find 

A winter rife, 
Where ice-chains bind 

The streams of life. 

The flow'ry spring 
Is infant time, 

The summers bring 
Manhood to prime, 

The autumns mature 
Wisdom's fair sage. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 95 

Winter is nature 
Frosty witli age. 

Oh ! may we learn, 

While yet in youth, 
To e'er discern 

Nature's own truth ; 
He '11 find in wrath 

Sore repentance, 
Who dares to laugh 

At experience. 



TO THOS. PAINE. 

Thos. Paine, the friend of Liberty, 

Thos. Paine, the tried and true, 
Struck with might and struck with courage 

For the rights to freemen due. 
Broke the chains of regal slavery, 

Drove the church and state abort ; 
Common Sense and Age of Reason 

Dawned upon the human heart. 

He broke society's inquisition, 

Scattered proscription's faggots, 
Marked the bloody and slimy trail 

Of priestly worms and maggots ; 
Struck truth and right from cringing faith, 

And many a mind he freed. 
Whose soul expands in the light of day. 

Unfettered by mystic creed. 

Truth 's eternal and will survive, 
Tho' the powers of hell conspire, 



96 R USTIC RHYMES. 

'T will spring from the grave of mart}a*s, 
'T will live through blood and fire ; 

You may tread 't to earth and crush it, 
You may scatter it o'er the main, 

Deeply sown in the hearts of men, 
'Twill spring in life again. 

Reason 's the sun of Liberty, 

True sovereign of all the earth, 
Kings and priests may call it treason 

And attempt to crush its birth, 
But it will break the dungeon bars 

In every king's dominion, 
And quench the priestly fires of hate 

That burn men for opinion. 

Thos. Paine, champion of Truth, 

The great apostle of the free. 
Nations yet unborn will wreath 

The glory of his memory ; 
And though we 'vc laid his dust away, 

Heaped with calumny and strife, 
Despite the howl of savage priest 

We '11 live his lessons of life. 

His noble words are not forgotten, 

His courage strong as iron. 
When the struggling colonies 

Cowed 'neath the British Lion ; 
'Twas him first said, "Let us be free. 

All men 're equal by birth ; " 
His glorious words will yet outring 

The dastard howl of priestly dearth. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 97 

MODERN JUSTICE. 

They say that Justice is really blind, 
Not with good eyes a bandage behind, 
Yet her ancient and trusty scales 
Now oft upon the balance fails ; 
As to her sword, for vengeance trusted, 
The point 's blunt, the edge is rusted ; 
Dead is her ally. Common Sense, 
Killed by technical evidence. 

If Justice be blind, the old " galoot" 
Leads like a sow ringed in the " snoot; " 
Tho' she be lame, decrepid, and old. 
She still smiles at the sound of gold, 
Sometimes rising in bristling might 
To strike an impecunious wight ; 
The rich, who for immunity 've paid, 
Ne'er feel the fury of her blade. 

Justice, once blind to extraneous hints, 
Is blind no more — she only squints. 
Opes her eyes to all that 's before, 
Shuts them in time to strike the poor; 
The rich from kleptomania steal. 
Kill, and to insanity appeal — 
These are aristocratic stains, 
Such blood courses not plebeian veins. 

Poor Vonderhide ! the devil take him ! 
No friends or money to back him. 
Made an example for coming time, 
Forfeits his neck to rid his crime. 
Jim Arnold and Tom Buford bold, 
Fiends of murder most foul and cold ; 
9 



98 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Money appeals to humanity, 
Self-defense, or at least insanity. 

Lawyers, despite their vaunting boast, 
Are but priest to this haggard ghost. 
Tickling vanity for her smiles ; 
Old Justice is pleased with their guiles, 
Sits on her throne, dull as a snail, 
While they fix the weights in her scale, 
Or, if she can not be delayed, 
Impose a shield before her blade. 

Tho' old, and wrinkled in complexion, 
Justice '11 do for an election. 
E'en the nation may feel^her sword 
When 't champions a Returning Board ; 
Three carpet-baggers, hearty and hale, 
Outweighed Louisiana in her scale ; 
Justice, in high mockery instated, 
Struck as party guile dictated. 



A FABLE. 



Assembled in convocation, 

Beast and varmints of the nation. 

Thought to determine by debate 

A question of religion or state ; 

A wise old owl, judge-like, umpired. 

Some for Bumbcome Avere inspired ; 

Many opinions had a hearing. 

Divers theories got an airing. 

When nicest points in logic turned 

The arguments were grave and learned ; 

Those who no thought themselves possessed 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 99 

Fiercely criticised all the rest. 

'Twas hard to tell, so poised each side, 

Which way the umpire would decide, 

Till the jackass, smiling sedate. 

Calmly 'rose to end the debate ; 

Back fell the varmints all dismayed, 

For loud and long the savant brayed, 

Foaiued and pawed with bellow and shout 

Till every sound was drowned out. 

Then said they all with one agree, 
" Surely the ass has the victory." 
"Hold," said the owl, " in howl and bray. 

The ass has truly won the day ; 

But not with reason he employs. 

With least of wit he's most of noise." 

The same in truth may well be said 
Of Nature's great unfledged biped ; 
His lungs to task are oft' exacted 
When his brain is most contracted. 
While modest worth may hide away 
What 's louder than an ass's bray. 



A FABLE, NO. 2. 

An old she-bear with two proud cubs 
Which dwelt among the mountain shrubs, 
Secure in her lonely retreat. 
Her lair untread by hunter's feet, 
Theught of some plan she might devise, 
Some secret scheme, goodly and wise, 
To keep her cubs out the valley 
Where the hunters' clans did rally. 



100 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

The wayward cubs, with head-strong will, 
Had no fear of huntsman's skill, 
Tho' they were told the human kind 
The rights of beast could never find. 
Savage varmints on men do feast, 
The best of men may slay the beast. 
Primeval man with naked sense 
Hardly lived by self defense ; 
Since he's formed himself in nations 
He 's got 'bove his old relations. 
With flint and club his own he held, 
But modern arms are made too well. 
The old she-bear knew of the skill 
Powder and steel gave man to kill, 
So in her heart she framed a lie 
To cheat her wayward children by ; 
She told them, "In the neighboring glen 
Dwelled an evil worse than men — 
A monstrous form lived in a cave, 
Where truant cubs would find a grave ; " 
This served her purpose, for the bear 
Restrained the cubs safe in her lair. 
Thus the mother, shrewd and Avary, 
Wards true danger with imaginary ; 
And so the immortal beast we find 
E'en reason as his mortal kind, 
With Devil of his own invention 
He tries to serve a good intention. 
Where real virtue fails to charm, 
This spectral ghost makes an alarm. 
And here 's the pai'adox forsooth — 
Falsehood becomes the food of truth ; 
If truth itself was always good, 
A lie could never serve it food. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 101 

THE CHASE BY NIGHT. 

When the evening sun had faded 

From the waning afternoon, 
And the soft shadows were creeping 

With the rising of the moon, 
The good dogs danced to the music 

And the bugle was in tune. 

Down through the gloomy hollow 

And over the craggy hills. 
With bugle blast and clamoring hounds, 

When evening winds were still 
And moon and stars from out the sky 

Reflected from every rill. 

The red fox sprang from his lair. 

Shook himself and was away ; 
Our trusty friends scent his trail, 

They '11 chase him till the day. 
Oh ! there was music in the air, 

And the blithe hunters were gay. 

Soft and mellow floated the strain, 

The air unrufiied by a gale ; 
Old Towse was far before the pack 

And the first to strike the trail, 
We 'd have heard his shrill clarion voice 

If every other voice fail. 

And now another strikes the note, 

And yet another still, 
Until an hundred voices seem 

All the wood and field to fill, 
And every rock and cavern 'round 

Prolonged the joyous thrill. 



102 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

As we listened to the baying, 

We marked by each changing sound 

When our good dogs were gaining, 
When they were losing ground ; 

And with bugle chorused the clamor, 
And cheered the fainting hound. 

But hark ! the chase is thick'ning now, 

The fox is wearying fast ; 
Now spur your steed, ye huntsmen true. 

Let ditch and fence be passed. 
If ye'd be in at the killing 

Ere reynard breathes his last. 



TO THOS. CARLYLE. 

Thou grim Lion of Chelsea, 
Before whom the literati pale, 

On cold philosophy fed, 

Has no inward light been shed 

Upon thy chilly heart 
To soften its iron mail ? 

Why does the world regard thee 

Like a monster in his cage ? 
As if the darksome storm 
That keeps thy bosom warm 
Was the lightning's flash 
Or the thunder's rage. 

Like some craggy rock 

On snowy clift towering high, 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 103 

Above the genial smiling earth, 
'Bove men of ordinary birth, 
Thou stancleth as 'mid clouds 
Capped by the azured sky. 

Woe to human follies, 

When thy piercing eagle eye 
Looks from beneath its shaggy brow 
Upon the earth teeming below, 
'T is as the lightning's flash 

From out a stormy sky. 

Still we think 'neath the rugged rocks 

A rougher nature rears ; 
In the heart is a warmer spring, 
Where afiections yet fondly cling, 
Falling softly on human grief 

Like a fond mother's tears. 

But what now is fame to thy age, 

Feebly tottering on the grave ! 
Thy mind can never try again 
The fire of its youthful strain ; 
Thou who once was Nature's prince. 

Art now but Nature's slave. 

But not so much what thou art 

As what thou hast been. 
When manhood in stately prime 
But indexed thy nobler mind. 
We bow before thee, revered sage, 

A sovereign prince of men. 



104 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. 

Cruel is fate, and unkind, 

Thus to torture my rest. 
To madden my frenzied mind 

And tear my bleeding breast. 
Has heaven ne'er a feeling 

For the sad heart's relief, 
To see me madly kneeling 

In agony and grief? 

Are bereavements ne'er so deep 

Oblivions may attend, 
As bright angels in the sleep 

Of those they would befriend, 
Soothing the sad heart's aching 

With balm from sunny clime, 
When our grieved souls are breaking 

On the rough wheel of time ? 

The fairest flower that casts 

Its tender blossom forth 
Withers before the fierce blast 

Streaming from out the north ; 
So, 'mid this world's seething strife, 

Disease's vapory breath, 
The loveliest forms of life 

Are marked by cruel death. 

Those we've learned to know and love. 

Idolize their actions, 
Are singled out from above 

And torn from our affections ; 
Bitter experience imparts 

Sad lesssons night and day, 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 105 

The idols of the human heart 
Are only things of clay. 

Oh ! who has not lost one dear, 

Who has not heard the groan, 
When the Fates unkindly tear 

Loved ones from the hearth-stone ? 
Who has not felt the sad care 

O'er his soul strangely shed, 
Gazing on the empty chair 

Shadow'd by recent dead ? 

We stand by a lonely grave 

Solemnly and profound, 
Eternity's chilly wave 

Dashes Avith muffled sound ; 
We strain to catch an echo 

From out its hollow cave, 
Silently the waters flow — 

No response from the grave. 

We ask the fields and mountains, 

We ask the cloudy sky. 
We ask ocean's deepest fountains, 

In vain for a reply. 
Hast thou seen our friend, the dead. 

In the far spirit spheres ? 
Hast thou e'er heard his soft tread. 

Silent to human ears ? 

Still we linger 'round his tomb 

With mingled hopes and fears ; 
Perhaps, from out its dark gloom, 

He smiles upon our tears, 
Or with extended arm stands. 

Smiling at all our cares. 
Pointing to the better lands 

Beyond our dusky spheres. 
10 



106 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

THE TORNADO. 

I stood where tlie forest was dark 

With the shadow of the storm, 
And beheld the fierce tornado 

As it madly swept along 
Like some hideous monster Avild, 

Breathing destruction and death ; 
The thunders roared his angry voice, 

The lightnings flamed his breath ; 

The noise of his advancing tread 

Was like the clash of mettle 
When fiercest hordes in mad array 

Rush wildly to battle ; 
Before him in incessant flames 

The sheeted lightnings raced. 
Behind the groaning thunders roared 

'Mid forest's broken waste ; 

The tallest oaks shivered and flew, 

Twisted by whirlwinds with ease, 
As lightly as a thistle down 

Borne by summer's gentlest breeze. 
When the destruction had passed by, 

Rolling as on fiery wheels, 
I gazed upon the scattered wreck 

As on a thousand battle fields. 

The clouds whirled in wild confusion 
High 'bove the hurricane's path, 

Like the boiling of smoke and flame 
Above a volcano's wrath ; 

And on it came in fuiy wild, 
Dragging a dire train behind. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 107 

With death and hell in every breath, 
Most awfully sublime. 

The men rushed madly from their homes, 

The wild beast from out each lair, 
The birds, screaming with awful fright. 

Whirled 'round with the circling air ; 
Over hills aijd dales widely strown 

The mangled dead and dying, 
And scarce the rocks and mountains firm 

The fierce tempest defying. 



THE FALLEN. 

When woman in all her beauty 
Strangely forgets th' sacred duty 
Her heart must ever be true to 
To reap virtue's rewards. 

And with a bold and brazen face 
Blushes not at the foul disgrace 
That severs her from all the race 
Of modest womankind, 

All her lovely charms are faded. 
Is moral darkness deeper shaded. 
Is human wretch e'er more degraded 
In society's mind ? 

Woman, we love and adore her, 
All our hopes are hovered o'er her. 
But what power can restore her 
When once she has fallen ? 

Perhaps a pure love misplaced, 
A frailty of the human race. 



108 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

And yet the stain can't be effaced 
By oceans of tears. 

Perhaps it was but the heeding 
Of a faithless lover's pleading, 
Who left her soul and heart bleeding 
With confidence betrayed. 

Few, few indeed of woman's name, 
Who have stooped to sin and shame. 
On Avhom alone will rest the blame 
When heaven avenges ? 

Wretched woman, thy tear-stained groan 
May reach heaven's pitying throne. 
But mortal man will cast the stone — 
Himself unforgiven. 



JOHN BUNYAN. 

John Bunyan was a sickly saint. 

Put in prison madly, 
His Christian had the dyspepsia. 

And had it very l)adly, 
Hence when John wrote for moral good 

He wrote very sadly ; 
Now, if you 'd have his epitaph, 

I will pen it gladly : 

Here lies John Bunyan, dou])Iy blessed. 
May his soul and body rest ; 
If only sour saints get to glory. 
His will be an upper story. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 109 



THE SNEAK. 



I dread not the fierce lion 

Nor tiger in my pass, 
But I dread the sneaking snake 

That lurks in the grass ; 
The lion may be savage, 

The tiger true as steel, 
Only the snake in the grass 

Will bite yon in the heel. 

There 's a high nobility 

In every honest foe 
Who meets you bravely, boldly, 

And strikes an open blow ; 
Not from secret ambuscade, 

Not from coverts stark. 
With assassin's stealthy steps 

From hidden caverns dark. 

He 's a coAsardly dastard. 

But seeking your disgrace. 
Who, frowning behind your back, 

Smiles sweetly to your face ; 
Give me an open enemy, 

One worthy of my steel. 
Save me from the sneaking cur 

That snarls at my heel. 

Behind a deceitful smile 

With venomous guile o'ergrown, 
The sneak plays a murderous part 

And strikes with hand unknown ; 
He greets you e'er so friendly. 

Subtle fawning no lack ; 



110 R USTIC RHYMES. 

Beware ! when you least expect it, 
He '11 stab you iu the back. 

Show me the true gentleman, 

Who acts a brave man's part, 
Who measures swords on equal ground 

With an undaunted heart ; 
Be he your friend or your foe, 

You need no vigils keep, 
He '11 never steal upon you 

And strike you in your sleep. 

Show me the sneaking coward. 

With his dissembling air, 
He 's lurking Avith stealthy step 

To strike you unaware ; 
Beware the two-faced villain. 

Watch him whene'er he pass. 
He 's a cur behind your back. 

He 's a snake in the grass. 



TALK ABOUT THE GOLDEN SLIPPERS. 

Talk about the golden slippers 

Which bright angels wear. 
There are but few mortal toes 

That can squeeze in a pair, 
Tho' grace with sacerdotal shears 

Trim their corns with care. 

Many a heart, relentless, proud. 

Ne'er sipped temptation's gall, 
Nor passed with feet all bare and sore 

Where oft' the bravest fall, 



RUSTIC RHYMES. Ill 

Free from the seductive passions 
That weaker men inthrall. 

Ah ! could ye see the bitter woe 

Pressed to unwilling lips, 
Tho' the soul may loathe its power 

But yet enslaved it sips, 
Spell-bound to the poisonous cup 

That with damnation drips. 

Has humanity yet no tears 

To shed o'er his disgrace ? 
Has Christianity no prayers, 

In all its stock of grace, 
For the man with soul immortal 

Whose passions have no peace ? 

Oh ! ye who boast victories divine 

O'er temptations untried, 
Ye 've never known the bitter strife 

Of some whom you deride ; 
Virtuous souls battling for right, 

A fouler flesh belied. 



AFTER THE BATTLE. 

The enemy have fled, the battle it is o'er — 
The cannons' thunder, the rifles' incessant roar. 
The charge and the retreat amid dismay and wrath, 
And bursting of fiery shells 'long their murderous path. 

The clouds are clearing 'way from off* the bloody field, 
Where the victors exult and the vanquished yield. 
Where in sick'ning carnage the mangled and the slain, 
The dead and the dying, are scattered o'er the plain. 



112 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Here in ghastly heaps our bravest sons fell, 
When the battle-field shook with canister and shell ; 
From the rifle-pits, stubborn and undismayed, 
A leaden death rained on every charge made ; 

Solid shot and shell, grape-shot and chain. 
Furrowed thro' the columns, but they closed again ; 
Still onward they charged, death and hell defying. 
The battle's roar drowning the groans of the dying. 

As we gaze o'er the field where dead and wounded lie, 
Many a strange scene greets the unhappy eye. 
Many a bitter groan fills the heart with grief, 
The mangled in anguish are pleading for relief. 

Here among the dead, and who will weep no more, 
A flaxen-haired boy lies chilled in his gore ; 
One hand upon his heart tells of a nobler rest, 
The other clasps a Bible to his bosom pressed. 

And here lies one alone, where sympathy may start. 
Kneeling as if a prayer was bubbling from his heart ; 
Close beside him a missive, softer than the strife — 
It told of tender loves of children, home, and wife. 

And here lies another, a gray-haired sire. 
His eyes blood-shot with frenzy's maddening ire. 
With an oath on his lips, his heart in passion burned. 
He fell on the rifle-j)its when waning victory turned. 

Many a mother's heart, beating strangely and wild, 
Hears the battle's roar, praying for her child ; 
Comrades will tell, no doubt, his was the bravest part. 
And this ghost of glory must soothe the mother's heart. 

Mother and child, when they hear the night-winds hum- 
ming. 
Will rush to the door to see if father is coming ; 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 113 

When he comes no more, others will tell the story, 
Loue widow and orphan — this, my friends, is glory. 

! ye who thirst for fame, here her victims are spread ; 
Come hear their dying groans, come and see the dead 
Heaped in many ghastly heaps, mangled and gory. 
This indeed is fame, and this her field of glory. 



HOWEVER DEEP IN SIN AND STRIFE. 

However deep in sin and strife 

Man's lead by misdirection. 
There are some hours in every life 

Of sober reflection. 

No heart so hard, so like a stone. 

So filled with human cares, 
But that at times 'tis melted down 

And softened into tears. 

However low fallen in sin. 

By human folly driven. 
There is in man something akin 

To his pristine heaven. 

Let them rave who are wont to teach 

Depravity is total, 
And naught but faith in priest can reach 

Beyond the grim portal. 

Oh ! judge ye not man by his faith, 

But rather by his deeds ; 
The purest men who've lived on earth 

Are damned by all the creeds. 



114 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Who heeds the mandates of his breast 

No evil can betide, 
The conscience that can bring its rest 

Is the noblest guide. 

Why talk of faith to hungry men, 
Why burden them with creeds ! 

Go feed the poor, the sick attend, 
Go succor human needs ! 



ANGELS' VISITS. 

When slumber's soft chain my weary limbs binds, 
There comes to me in the shadows of night. 

As fair as the day ere the eve declines, 
A being of love transcend en tly bright. 

She moves in my chamber, soft as the light 
That fades from the brow of declining day. 

As a fairy would move on moonbeams bright. 
Softer than the dew-drops that round her stray ; 

She leans o'er my couch with a smile serene. 
She whispers in my ears a tale of love. 

I 'wake from my sleep and I think 't is a dream, 
Nor know 't is a visit from angels above ; 

Then I close my eyes and I dream a prayer, 
And I feel soft lips to my own lips pressed, 

A heavenly odor pervading the air 
As one on a couch of flowers did rest. 

Oh ! the sweet visions that pass thro' my mind 
And float away on the tide of my dreams. 

Like the evening clouds when the summer's wind 
Drifts them in life forms and gilds them with beams. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 115 

I commune in my sleep with the spirits of peace, 

My soul is filled with heavenly delight, 
And soothed my conscience reposes at ease 

As rests the earth 'neath the shades of night. 



IF MAN DIES, SHALL HE LIVE AGAIN? 

Why ask this question of the soul ? 
What secret torch's at man's soul, 
Streaming its light o'er life's dark plain, 
To tell us if man lives again ? 

Do the desires of the heart, 
The soul's anguish or secret smart, 
Answer the longings of the mind 
And surely sight the hopeless blind ? 

Then is there light in every breast. 
And should be peace, content, and rest ? 
For what bosom is without faith. 
And hope in life beyond the death ? 

Who doubts Nature's powers to give 
The future life we hope to live ? 
Why make the heart a barren plain 
And plant a hope that blooms in vain ? 

Whence came this dream, if 'tis a dream, 
Where hope blossoms forever green ? 
What spirit awoke these visions strange. 
So far beyond man's mental range? 

Yes, we all trust, but do not know, 
We fondly hope, but are not sure. 
That life's longings are not in vain. 
And tho' man dies, he '11 live again. 



116 R USTIC RHYMES. 

THE SUNNY SOUTHLAND. 

All hail ! the American Eagle, 

All hail ! the illustrious brave, 
Who love the eusigu of stars and stripes 

Wherever its colors wave. 
Who will blame my pride of section ? 

The Union 's my home and heart, 
But my joys are with the Southland — 

May its glories ne'er depart. 

Glorious land, the Sunny Southland ! 

Meadows green and sparkling streams. 
Beautiful laud, perennial with flowers, 

Fragrant as a fairy's dreams, 
Thou wast the pride of my boyhood. 

And fond mem'ry, brooding still, 
A thousand pleasing fancies eutwiue 

Round every rivulet and rill. 

Thou land of sunshine and beauty, 

Thou pride of manhood and youth, 
Land of fair women and brave men. 

Home of virtue and of truth, 
May peace and plenty crown thee still 

And freedom thy sons inspire. 
While liberty draws in circles round 

Its walls of flaming fire ! 

The harsh discord of grim battle 
Has shaken thy sunny plains. 

And the blood of thy bravest sons 
A mother's warm bosom stains ; 

Crushed 'neath thy brothers' iron heels, 
I 've heard thy piteous groan. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. Ill 

I 've seen thee deck the Northern graves 
With flowers stripiied from thy own. 

Let victors parade their bloody shirts 

And tell the world their story, 
But lightly tread the Southern graves 

They have digged for their glory. 
Oh ! mock us not, my dear friends, 

If over these graves we weep, 
Our souls are humble, our hearts are sore, 

And our wounds are very deep. 

We ai'e trying to forget the past, 

To bury its dead away, 
To live for our country's glory. 

Hopeful of a brighter day ; 
Let us wake no more the feelings. 

Let the deep-mouthed cannons sleep 
Where shadowy specters of battle 

Their ghostly vigils keep. 

God still smiles upon the Southland 

Through the battle's gloomy spray, 
The golden sun of prosperity 

Is lighting up a better day ; 
Our hearts but warm with faith and hope, 

The chains of slavery broken. 
The spirit of love and liberty 

Whispers a friendly token. 



'TIS BUT A SIMPLE LOCK OF HAIR. 

'T is but a simple lock of hair, 

'Tis but a faded curl. 
And yet it has for me a charm, 

The sweetest in the world ; 



118 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Although she who gave it to me 
Has long since passed away, 

This little talisman is left 
To compliment her memory. 

Ah ! well do I remember now 

My heart's transcendent bliss, 
She told me that she loved me true. 

And sealed it with a kiss ; 
And then it was this raven lock 

Was severed from the rest, 
I vowed I 'd wear it forever, 

A charm upon my breast. 

When she blushed so very sweetly, 

To my bosom I held 't. 
She was very young and modest 

And begged me not to tell 't ; 
As I placed it in my bosom 

I vowed it should ne'er part, 
Death has taken away my love. 

Death must tear 't from my heart. 

We were but tiny children then. 

When purest fancies rove. 
But our pure thoughts were earnest 

And our hearts were in love ; 
And though I have grown older, still, 

In this world of wicked cares, 
I never can forget the love 

That thrilled my early years. 

Why say it was a weak fancy 
That broke my childish rest. 

For though years have rolled between us 
It lingers on my breast ; 



R USTIC RHYMES. 119 

When I visit her little grave 

Where rests her slender form, 
The same emotions come o'er me 

That used my heart to warm. 

I sometimes meet her even now 

In the visions of night, 
She moves a gentle, graceful form, 

Like an angel of light; 
I mark her lovely, smiling face. 

Arched brow without its curl. 
Then to my bosom press the lock — 

All 's left me in the world. 



THE 'PATHIES. 

There are allopaths and hydropaths, 
And homeopaths as brave, 

But never a path 'mong all the paths 
But leads to the grave. 

Some give thee infinitesimals, 
And some give larger pills, 

But all of them are large enough 
When 't comes to the bills. 

Some will vomit and some purge thee. 
Some dose the nerves for pains ; 

All deplete the patient's pockets, 
Though they will not his veins. 

Some, Baptist-like, believe in water. 

Some 'lectrify each groan. 
All have a credulous following 

And graveyards of their own. 



120 RUSTIC- RHYMES. 

Some claim to be true eclectics, 
Some 's Indian doctors bawl ; 

There 's little choice among the lot, 
They 're Charon's agents all. 



ANCIENT FAME. 

What is fame to the silent dead, 

With its roll of classic years ? 
The marble shaft above the head 

Speaks indeed to living ears ; 
But death, long, eternal repose, 

Whether our friends laugh or weep. 
Oblivious alike to joys and woes 

It 's long, unbroken sleep. 

Can a Csesar or Alexander 

Hear again his hero name, 
Tho' time's torturous course meanders 

Amid his undying fame ? 
Scattered by centuries of storms, 

Their crumbling dusts are strown. 
And thro' a thousand changing forms. 

All senseless and unknown. 

The sweet notes that blind Homer sung. 

Thrilled from heaven's choicest lyre, 
Will linger on the human tongue 

Till all circling times expire ; 
This poet, who with throbbing brain 

Poesy's sweetest secrets broke. 
Will hear no more the mellow strain 

His own fancy awoke. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 121 

Can Gautama and Mahomet, 

Tho' achieved their proud designs 
With holy wisdom, even yet 

Hear suppliants at their shrines. 
Where millions by blind faith 

Or fanatic creeds driven. 
Seek the dark chambers of death. 

Dreaming that 't is heaven ? 

But such, alas ! in truth, is fame, 

Enthusing ambitious men. 
That they may die with swelling name. 

Engraved on the future ken — 
Die like the beast, and rot and waste, 

Never, never hear again 
Those deeds of glory or disgrace 

That make or unmake men. 



I WISH I WAS A PREACHER. 

Oh ! I wish I was a preacher, 

Then it would be so sweet 
To camp with the richest wethers 

And get good grub to eat ; 
But when the flock is impoverished 

It would n't suit so well, 
I 'd leave the impecunious lambs 

To chance it for hell. 

But where there are regal comforts, 
And where there 's princely grub, 

I would sing the songs of Zion 
And float the gospel tub ; 

I know that salvation is free 
To all u])on a level, 
11 



122 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

But the flock that is very poor 
Must shepherd with the devil. 

I might find among the paupers 

Many God-fearing creatures, 
But he 's a pillar in the church 

Who helps to feed the preachers ; 
I 'd look among the wealthy class 

For piety unmistaken, 
I 'd camp upon their downy beds 

And eat their eggs and bacon. 

While I might serve my Lord and God 

By starving like a wizard, 
Yet all the praise of ragged saints 

Can't ease a preacher's gizzard. 
" You bet," I'd make the best of time, 

Whatever winds might waft 'er ; 
There '11 be little of the preaching cant 

In the great hereafter. 



LOVE 



Youth for love, like flowers in spring time, 

And sweet its rose full blown, 
Though autumn brings the fruit to prime, 

Its delicate tints are gone, 
But comes no more exquisite youth 

When once its dreams have faded. 
Sere winter's winds are chill and ruth, 

And autumn's streams 're shaded ; 
Or, if perchance winter's sun steals 

Thro' broken clouds unrolled, 
Its smiles are shed o'er icy fields. 

As dreary as they 're cold. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 123 

ENGLAND'S POETS LAUREATE. 

O, come tliou beast of Balaam's pride, 
Come let the poets take a ride ; 
We '11 get the muses on astride, 

And then we '11 sing 
Such songs as Laureates provide 

To 'muse the king. 

'T is sweet to hear the watch-dogs growl. 
Guarding their master and his gold, 
Rattle their chains, rant, and howl, 

The thieves to affright, 
When only some ill-omened owl 

Hoots to the night. 

So, poets of the crippled wing, 
Tame falcons, to your masters cling. 
There 's bread in every song you sing 

For royal pleasure. 
Ravished muses forth their verses bring 

In forced measure. 

So, kenneled dogs, rattle your chains. 
Proud of your collars and their stains, 
When Freedom expires, o'er her remains 

Erect your thrones. 
Laugh at the grief that swells her pains 

And mock her groans. 

With affectation's wicked guile 
Go woo the tyrant's bloody smile. 
And tell the people all the while 

It is Liberty 
To enslave mankind and defile 

The brave and free. 



124 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Go flex your knees, ye pampered slaves, 
Go carve your names on Freedom's graves ! 
Pollute Liberty, slander her braves, 

And take the pelf 
That tyrants wring from tortured slaves 

And feast yourself! 

An aristocracy may be kind 

To its slaves, but the slaves are blind, 

When in a privileged class they find 

Such god-like things ; 
The halters round their necks they bind 

Who worship kings. 

Mercenary 's the polluted lyre 

Where Freedom hides its smoldering fire. 

And forced the muses who inspire 

Its servile lays ; 
Dreading monarchy's bloody ire, 

They sing its praise. 

! tune thy harp, proud Liberty, 
And sing of men, equal and free, 
By heaven's and the earth's decree ; 

No slaves nor kings, 
Cursed be the bard, whoe'er he be, 

Bows to suck things. 



THE F. F. VS. 

We are the true sons of old Virginia, 
Come, common folks, get on your knees, 

The blood in our veins is no common stuff". 
We are genuine F. F. Vs. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 125 

Our dads killed Indians and danced the scalp-dance, 
And bought our dames with funked tobacco ; 

No better blood flows thro' royalty's veins, 
Pray tell us then what we lack, sir. • 

Our great grandsires ruled this nation great, 

No people more honest or nicer ; 
When Virginia cut the public cheese. 

We got the largest slice, sir. 

But our negroes freed, our prestige gone, 

With glories of many a field. 
The backbone of the South broken in twain. 

We 're left only shabby genteel. 

We '11 remember the glory of days departed, 
And still bow our backs, like tom-cats, 

Rub up the brass buttons on dad's old coats, 
And parade in his old cocked hats. 

Our hearts as proud as our stomachs empty, 
From dad's moss grave hope plucks its rose ; 

If we are not great, our sires were mighty. 
The children may wear their old clothes. 

Posterity's ungenerous to the sons of the great; 

Where on its bottom must stand each tub, 
Sons of the illustrious must toil and sweat 

Like other men's sous for their grub. 

Oh ! what a pity this great, great nation 

Has no empty titles to please 
The pride of whim-inspired fools who dream 

There 's glory in the F. F. Vs. 



126 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

THERE'S A GOOD OLD TIME A-COMINO. 

There 's a good old time a-coming, 

Full of joy aud full of praise, 
And the swelling years are humming 

All the gladness of its days ; 
In my prophetic eye I trace 

Dissolving crowns and empires, 
The visions of a nobler race 

My harp awakes and inspires. 

There 's a good old time a-coming, 

The right and wrong shall sever. 
The cannon's murderous booming 

Be heard no more forever ; 
The kings and priests will till the soil. 

Treason nor heresy crimes, 
Wealth grow only from honest toil, 

The harvest of good old times. 

There 's a good old time a-coming, 

When contentions all will cease. 
War's grim foes no more consuming. 

All the nations dwell in peace ; 
Would that nature 'd prolong my life 

To th' dawn of that better day. 
When calumny's hushed, and th' tongue o' strife 

Is buried fore'er away. 

There 's a good old time a-coming. 

Make haste its glorious hours, 
Darkness '11 flee before its coming 

And vice shrink before its powers, 
The sword and bayonet turn to rust — 

Hallelujah! our songs of glee, 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 127 

Crowns and mitres trail in the dust, 
The people, the people are free ! 

There 's a good old time a-coming, 

Reason will hold dominion, 
None blessed for creed or cunning, 

None damned for mere opinion ; 
Reason, the torch-light of Liberty, 

Will illume life's dusky goals. 
Nor kings nor priests enslave the free, 

Bind their hands or fetter their souls. 



HOPE 



Hope is the lone star that guides the soul 
And lends to sorrow its beacon rays, 

'Neath its beams the cares of life unroll 
In fleeting dreams of better days. 

Howe'er dark the gloom of human grief, 
There are still some stars from out the night 

That shine through broken clouds in dim relief 
And cheer up the weary soul with light. 

The worn travellers 'long life's desert waste. 
With foot-steps sore pursue the dim light, 

But the phantom recedes with equal haste 
And always remote though forever bright. 

To weary invalid, racked with dire pain, 
'T is counsel serene and heav'n inspiring, 

It cools his thirst and soothes his aching brain. 
And cheers his soul even when dying. 

Youth, inspired by deeds of glory profound. 
Kindles ambition at its burning flames. 



128 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

And through mazy years yearns for the renown 
That fortune heaps on obscurest names. 

And e'en age, tottering on the ragged brinks, 
Views with composure the ending strife, 

Though from pleasure's streams no more it drinks, 
Its visions are of another life. 

The fond maid who pins the rose on her breast. 
Blushing at the name she Loves to hear. 

Finds in her hopes a solace for unrest. 
And smiles as if the world had no tear. 

The widowed heart, weighed down with fear and grief, 
Piuing o'er the graves of loved ones lost, 

And when all her bitter tears bring no relief, 
itope illumes the wretch tho' tempest tossed. 

To the Christian, tottering 'mid sin and death, 
'Gainst the powers of jealous hatred driven, 

'T is the calm softer than the lily's breath. 
The golden t^hain tethering life to heaven. 

There is no night of human woe so dark. 

No anguish of human heart so deep. 
That hope lends not the mind its beacon spark 

To light the dying soul to its sleep. 



I AM NOT OLD, YET I HAVE SEEN. 

I am not old, yet I have seen 

In social ties sad faults I ween ; 

Oh! would to God I could erase 

Some scenes that still disturb my peace. 

If I was asked to manifest 

The demons of the human breast, 



R USTIC RHYMES. 129 

The chiefs of life's unhallowed brood, 
Are pride and base ingratitude ! 

I have seen the ungenerous son 
With impious pride his father spurn, 
Disown the germ that gave him name, 
And shrink from his sire with shame. 
As if the stream in its far course 
Was purer than its fountain-source, 
Or child could boast a social good 
SujDcrior to its father's blood ; 
Excepting not the real worth. 
Nature's given the humblest birth. 
Common stuff 's the blood of kings 
And all the caste who boast such things — 
An honest man 's as great as him 
'Whose pride 's a royal diadem. 

And I have seen the father cast 
His offspring from him like a beast. 
And more inhuman than the brute, 
Disown, dishonor, and refute. 
As if the child in its worst stains 
Was not the blood of its father's veins ! 
As well curse the child that's born blind 
As t' curse it for its cast of mind ; 
However good, however rash, 
The son is but the father's flesh. 

But there is one friend, a mother, 
With heart truer than all other : 
Through the torturing throes of birth 
She welc'omes the little waif to earth, 
The guardian of his tender years. 
She soothes his jjains and lulls his fears ; 
12 



130 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

However high, however low, 

Her prayers will follow whe'er he go ; 

When all others desert his weal, 

Beside his dying couch she '11 kneel, 

And in the face of black desjoair 

With yearning heart jjour out her prayer. 

Whether dying with glory blessed 

Or a culprit at the law's behest ; 

There is no crime so black, so deep, 

O'er which a mother may not weep. 

Why then repeat the slander vile. 
Woman herself is sin's own child. 
That in some dark, mysterious way 
Angelic man she led astray, 
Companioned with a demon base 
To ruin herself and damn the race. 
Her tiny arm broke Eden's spell, 
Unbarred the iron gates of hell. 
Rather unbosom society's wound, 
'Tis wicked man has dragged her down 
And tried to shield his infernal deed 
With legends of a holy creed, 
As if the slander would be sweet 
That heaven 's libeled to repeat. 
Confiding in her purer trust, 
A creature of man's baser lust, 
She yields whatever gives her pain. 
He turns and slanders her again. 

Woman, thine is the nobler part, 
Thine the true instincts of the heart ; 
Seraphic form to angels akin, 
Tempted by man alone to sin. 
Though all the demons out of hell 



R USTIC RHYMES. 131 

And all angels unite to swell 

A wicked story, vile and base, 

I '11 ne'er believe in thy disgrace. 

Rather say, from depths of sin. 

Where not a ray of light broke in. 

As black as hell, as dark as night, 

Woman smiled the dawning light. 

Dispelled the clouds of moral gloom 

That wrapped the world's unhallow^ed tomb. 

Man, wouldst thou thy legends retain, 
Revise thy holy book again. 
Have thyself, where Eden's nectar drips, 
Pressing sin to woman's pure lips ! 



THE CENTURY PARTY. 

Our girls were out the other day. 

Costumed strange and antique, 
Their manners queer and ancient styles 

Of by -gone days did speak; 
As we gazed upon the happy throng 

We thought of some no more. 
Who graced such styles with charming smiles 

A hundred years ago. 

We looked upon the sweetest faces, 

'Neath hats so quaint and old ; 
No wonder, woman 's lovely still, 

Be the fashion ne'er so droll ! 
No wonder our grandsires loved the dames. 

Wooed them with tenderest care ! 
Their pretty faces had charming graces 

Despite the powdered hair. 



132 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

The big sun-bonnet, all o'er the head, 

Hid many a charm away. 
Their hearts as true and cheeks as red 

As any are now-a-day, 
Their blushes as sweet, their eyes as bright. 

Their waists as neat and slender — 
But one thing I mind, our granddames behind. 

That 's the Grecian bender. 

When a hundred years shall pass us by. 

Sweet girls will comique our time, 
And the world laugh at our fashions queer, 

Though we think they 're sublime ; 
But woman '11 have a cheering smile. 

Her form angelic and petite, 
Howe'er you dress her, man '11 e'er caress her. 

And swear the fashion 's sweet. 



THE DISSECTING-ROOM, CHRISTMAS 
NIGHT, 1872. 

The dim lamps are lighted. 

The victims are unspread, 
The phantom shadows creep 

O'er the grini-visaged dead ; 
Half a hundred human forms, 

Now but the wrecks of life, 
Unshrouded and ghastly. 

Await the student's knife. 

They 're here whose friends to-night, 

Merry with wine and song, 
Little dream of science's right 

Or of society's wrong. 



R USTIG RHYMES. 133 

Death makes them equal here, 

The ruthless knife of fate 
Will ne'er inquire their names, 

Their titles or estate. 

We gaze upon shrunken forms. 

Filled with sad misgiving, 
Though the world is gay enough 

Mingling with the living. 
In the presence of death 

Gayeties all confound us — 
Shadowy forms from spirit-land 

Are hovering round us. 

The world is merry to-night 

And man on pleasure bent. 
E'en now the blood-hounds o' Death 

Are hot upon his scent ; 
Death 's abroad with glass and scythe, 

But man still undismayed. 
Frenzied from pleasure's cup, 

Meets the unerring blade. 

Here from palace and hovel, 

God only knows each name. 
And ruthless knife of science 

Is ignorant o' the same ; 
O'er this human butchery, 

O'er this carnage and gore, 
Students smile like savants, 

All proud of savage lore. 

Many graves by flowers wreathed 

The truth will ne'er disclose, 
Th' sculptured pride 's a mockery 

That speaks of sweet repose ; 



134 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Friends '11 gather round the grave 
To speak of worth and faults, 

Where stately shafts lift their forms 
'Bove the empty vaults. 

Would you know life's vanities, 

Its pleasures bought so dear, 
Look at the world's greedy strife 

Ignobly ending here ; 
The soft whisperings of flattery 

Are senseless to these ears, 
Glory may fill life with pride. 

Death neither smiles nor tears. 

Could these cold forms but speak, 

What would they say to-night 
Of all they 've left behind, 

Of happy homes and bright? 
Some struggled hard with death, 

Clung to life so fondly, 
As if earth was all hope 

And death blank eternity ; 

Some, frenzied with weird grief, 

Insane visions inspire. 
Fevered blood tortured the brain 

With forms grotesque and dire ; 
Some, serene as fading day 

Shadowing evening's light. 
As calmly bade them adieu, 

Welcoming its long night ; 

Some had fancies, hopeful, bright, 
To flit before the brain, 

Some, convulsed in horrid fright. 
Battled with fiends in flame; 

Some fond souls, who ne'er dreamed 
Life's frail tenure so short, 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 135 

Passed through unconscious sleep 
To death without a thought. 

We '11 i)ile their bones together, 

All in one common heap, 
Where we 've laid the flesh away, 

A thousand bodies sleep ; 
Men, women, and children, all 

In one foul pit distressed, 
Moldering slowly back to earth — 

God grant their spirits rest. 

Perhaps the souls of the dead 

Stand guard around these walls, 
And though we hear not their tread, 

March silent through its halls ; 
Or, why this fearful silence 

That fills the heart with dread, 
And why this strange oppression 

While standing by the dead ? 

Who knows but this very night. 

While the world 's on a spree, 
Here in this Dissecting-room 

They hold their jubilee; 
The spirits may be content, 

More than our hopes can tell, 
Unprisoned from their bodies 

As from a useless shell. 

And ne'er a soul gathered here 

Will pine away for grief, 
Knowing its body is lent 

All for human relief. 
Oh ! what ghost would not proudly. 

That science might not starve, 
Bequeath its body gladly 

For young saw-bones to carve ? 



136 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

OUR CREEDLESS GOD AND HIS CREA- 
TURE, MAN. 

Whether influenced for good or ill, 

Man's creation 's enigma still, 

Lord of all, in reason sublime, 

He rules supreme in every clime ; 

A god in all pride can im2:)ute, 

In passion lower than the brute. 

Hate, love, fear, hope, all, all profound, 

Whate'er makes man or drags him down, 

That brings honor or brings disgrace, 

Is the heritage of his race. 

As here I sit in pensive mood, 
O'er the past my fancies brood, 
And from creation's cosmic birth 
I trace the flight of time and earth ; 
Where'er I mark creation's plan. 
The central figure is always man. 
Through the dreary chaotic waste, 
Through the cycles of ages past. 
Ere from out eternal quiet 
Light first sprang at nature's fiat. 
Ere from the tumult of the deep 
Life awoke from organic sleep, 
Nature ruled ; immutable laws 
Guided the sun, moon, and the stars. 

But how came he — where, Avhence, when. 
The presumi)tive creature called man ? 
The structures of his life proclaim 
He's but a link in nature's chain. 
Every fiber of his being 
In strong accord and agreeing ; 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 137 

But whence liis source, majestic plan, 
The cause is God, the eftect, man ; 
And this as deep as we can look, 
Despite of sage or holy book. 

Like other beast his way man plods ; 
As if twin brother to the gods 
He scorns the menial tribes of earth, 
Denies his own terrestial birth, 
With pride high's the sky, deep 's the sea, 
Boasts a celestial })edigree. 

Ah ! mortal man, is it not pride 
Separates thee from all beside. 
Bequeathing human flesh and blood 
An immortality of good. 
Leaving other organic life 
To waste itself in brutal strife ? 
Is it not egotism bold 
That gives to thee alone a soul 
To ride 'bove empyrean fires 
When ev'ry other life expires ? 
Is it not thy insatiate pride 
That builds its heaven broad and wide, 
And thy jealous hate that extends 
A hell for all except thy friends ? 

Behold the Indian in his wild. 
Far from the home of Christian guile. 
Buries his friend with dog and knife 
To attend him in his spirit life ! 
And four times when the night returns, 
O'er his grave a fire burns 
To light his manes beyond this bound 
To a happier hunting-ground ; 
Nor Christian priest nor learned divine 
Swerves him from customs of time, 



138 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

From sacred legends handed down, 
Traditioned from ancient renown. 

See the Moslem, whom Christians spnrn, 
His dying eyes toward Mecca turn, 
With expiring breath speak a weal 
That makes the shuddering skeptic reel ; 
Behold, with what undying grace 
Faith mocks grim death e'en to his face ! 

Hear the Brahmin's exulting shout 
When great Juggernaut is brought out. 
Where pious friends with prayerful breath 
Implore the maimed to seek for death. 
Beneath the wheels to crush their cares 
And be transformed in other spheres. 

Behold mankind of every faith 
Rejoice in woe, exult in death ! 
From fiery stakes and dungeon cells 
Strengthen the creed, warn infidels ; 
To that fond egotism given 
That elects self the choice of heaven. 
And builds a spacious mansion grand 
For special grace ere time began. 
Turn, if you will, to Christian lands, 
Behold the thief with gory hands ! 
In his vile history you may trace 
A thousand crimes of black disgrace, 
Too infamous for pen to tell, 
Dark as night, as filthy as hell. 
When justice can no more endure, 
The thief's conscience, light and pure. 
Turns upward from his crimes in prayer 
And faces death without a fear ; 
Saved by grace and not by deeds. 
Saved by faith in Christian creeds. . 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 139 

Honest heathens, in whose dark night 
Has never shone the gospel light, 
If saved at all, with broken string 
A rusty harp to heaven bring, 
Morality must take its seat 
And wash the faithful murderer's feet. 
Saved ! oh, no, too foul their crimes, 
However rigliteous in their times ; 
Though pure in life, the wrong in faith 
Must l)e damned to eternal death. 

Behold the laud where faiths extend, 
And cross and crescent closely blend ! 
Behold, side by side are lying 
The Moslem and Christian, dying ! 
A rival god, a rival faith. 
Exults each in triumphant death ; 
Blessed lights, divinely shed. 
Cheer the living and save the dead. 
Islam's daughter, dying, blesses 
The prophet, to her bosom presses 
The Koran ; rejoicing the light 
Is hers, tho' the rest are in night. 
Christian daughter, dying, blesses 
The Gospel, to her bosom presses 
Its hopes ; rejoicing it 's given 
To lead the faithful to heaven. 

Men see pure mercy manifest 
That saves the few and damns the rest, 
Provided only this grace undue 
Makes them partakers Avith the few. 
What are human creeds but mere breath, 
Mythical creatures of our faith ! 
What 's faith in all its relations. 
The color of our educations ! 



140 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Bosoms, inspired, blaze when fanned 
By legends from the Father-land ; 
Traditions saved from ancient night 
Serve the people for sacred light, 
By subtle priest allured or frightened. 
The slaves believe and are enlightened. 
Where once a faith gains current force. 
The powers of hell can't turn its course ; 
The maddening stream rushes wildly on, 
And deep and wide the channel 's torn. 

'Swell tempt to shake the mountain base 
As stop the growth of Mormon grace ; 
The priests but howl their dismal tales, 
The people hear in frightful wails ; 
Whatever truths by faith possessed, 
They 're ne'er to the masses addressed ; 
Superstition finds ready soil 
Where childhood plays with artless guile. 
It grows with manhood's growth apace 
Till 't poisons all the human race. 

However diflferent be the creeds. 
Whether Mahomet fights or Jesus bleeds, 
Each nation with egotism crams, 
Itself elects, all others damns, 
Arrogating to its favored race. 
Immortality of love and grace. 

Why should faith be only merit 
We from our fathers inherit. 
Whether our glory or our shame. 
We 've our fathers' God all the same ? 
Tho' ev ry word of innovation 
Shocks the pride of the nation, 
Ev'ry word of pure reason 
Classed by state and clergy treason. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 141 

But if the rule 's to us applied, 
Oh ! why to other lands denied, 
Where old legends have witness borne 
Miracles greater than our own ? 

Man, poor creature of the sod. 
Adoring a proscriptive God, 
With selfishness sadly blessed, 
Saves himself to damn the rest. 

Give me a man with heart and soul 
Broad as the universal whole ! 
Give me a God creedless and free 
As the heart of a man should be ! 
Great Power Supreme, who rules the land 
And shapes the destinies of man, 
'T is priestcraft that would circumscribe 
Thy tender love to race or tribe ; 
Where'er extends the human race 
Spreads Thy benediction of grace. 
Free as the sunlight and the dews 
Thy tenderest mercies diffuse ; 
In ev'ry age, Avhate'er Thy name, 
To all mankind, one God, the same. 



PREDESTINATION. 

Thou whom God alone resjieCted, 
By eternal grace selected. 
Where all others are rejected 

As vile and gory, 
Predestined, called and elected 

All for His glory. 

O ! thou who art a chosen race, 
Tune now thy harps to partial grace; 



142 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Sing of joys that ne'er will cease 

Beyond the sky, 
Of hope, of love, eternal peace, 

Ne'er more to die. 

Look toward yon radiant strand, 
Far beyond time's fleeting sand. 
Behold a bright angelic baud. 
All saved by grace ; 
Sweet notes swelling the heav'niy land- 
Serene our peace. 

Music sweet to heaven-born ears, 
It lulls to sleep their saintly fears ; 
Haloes of glory round their cares 

Stream from above, 
Thousands bask in the smiling spheres 

Of elected love. 

Look down into the abyss of hell, 
Where fiery waves recede and swell ; 
Oh ! hear the damned roar and yell 

Where hope desjmirs, 
Then in the strains of mercy tell 

What grace is theirs. 

Eternal night of hopeless despair, 
No sun, no moon, no friendly star 
To light its gloom or soothe its care — 

Elected to hell ; 
Remorseless conscience with weird glare 

Broods o'er the cell. 

Not of merit but 'lected grace. 
The few who see God's smiling face ; 
Unborn, they were a chosen race. 
Refined treasure, 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 143 

Brands torn from burning disgrace 
For heav'n's pleasure. 

Before creation's sublime morn 
Eternal conceptions took form, 
Order sprang from chaos and storm ; 

Our woes began, 
And vaulted hell was heated warm 

To torture man. 

Backward roll time's circling flight 

Into the dusky shades of night. 

Ere God had said " Let there be light," 

And it was given, 
Souls yet unborn, in mystic night 

Purposed for heaven. 

Still the elect, shouting, proclaim 
Grace alone is redemption's scheme, 
And justify a hell of shame — 

Predestined sorrows. 
Where others must reap all the bane 

Of its horrors. 

Why 's our God so very partial, 
In love mild, in vengeance martial, 
Serene in heaA^en, fierce in hell. 

To helpless creature ? 
Sure all this inspiration fell 

Upon the preacher, 

God ne'er gave a reluctant smile 
To a wayward and sin-born child 
To please the craft, the priestly guild, 

That always delves 
To control his patronizing smile 

All to themselves. 



144 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Ere to such depths of woe we sink, 

Let's pause on eternity's brink 

And think of God, as one would think 

Who never dreams ; 
But every thirsty soul may drink 

At mercy's streams. 

As we know not the hearts of men, 
Judge them lightly, lest we offend 
Some virtuous conscience whose end 

Is peace profound, 
Tho' black clouds to mortal ken 

Gather around. 

O! my soul weary not with grief 
But look to heaven for relief, 
E'en on the cross the dying thief 

May hear the call ; 
God binds the world in his great sheaf, 

Mercy weeps for all. 



ANSWER TO A YOUNG LADY'S REQUEST 
NOT TO TELL. 

Young lovers, when riding out, 

Should not be cloyed with bliss, 
But keep their wits about them 

And look before they kiss ; 
I do n't deny the pleasure 

Is not for every one, 
The presence of a stranger. 

You know, may spoil the fun. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 145 

I 'd have hid my eyes, sweet lass, 

But how was I to know 
That I was uninvited 

Until I saw the show ? 
I '11 not connive at evil, 

For folly I 've no price. 
But the touch of innocent lips 

Is sacred as 't is nice. 

I'm a connoisseur of good things, 

A sweet kiss I know it, 
As perfume to the flower is, 

So love is to the poet ; 
True love is unsuspecting, 

Of confidence 'tis born. 
When you pluck its rose, my dear, 

Oh do n't forget its thorn. 



OUR COUNTRY. 

Laud of Liberty and civil pride. 
No crowned tyrants mar thy rest, 

No mitred despots e'er preside 

To nurse the vigor from thy breast ; 

Fair and free by nature designed, 
Liberal in all that is good 

And elevating to the mind ; 

Freedom crushed every unhallow'd brood, 
And sealed thy sacred rights with its blood. 

What galling chains have been broken 
By men, who gave their lives and all. 

That Liberty might be outspoken. 
Freedom bequeathed to one and all; 
13 



146 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

. The grandest men who have tasted 
Of tyranny's cup bitter as gall, 
On fields of blood their lives wasted, 
That we might survive the call 
And reap the glorious harvest of their fall. 

'T is not in vain the patriot dies. 

When around his most sacred grave 

Grateful people with tear-dimmed eyes 
Spread flowers o'er the martyred brave ; 

'T is not in vain the patriot dies, 

When Freedom's sons, no longer slaves, 

Exalt his memory to the skies, 

Who broke their chains, unbarred their caves, 
And flung Liberty's ensign where it waves. 

Ye who fear neither priest nor kings 

Nor inquisitions all gory, 
Know thou the price Liberty brings 

As a ransom for your glory. 
How noble men on battle field. 

Our country's sires, sage and hoary. 
Preferred to die rather than yield ? 

On your hearts engrave the story. 

To you they 've bequeathed undying glory. 

" Eternal vigil 's the price of liberty," 
Then guard well your sacred treasure, 

Be ever ready, sons of the free. 

Your swords with tyrants to measure ; 

Oh ! guard well each time-embalmed right 
From church and lordly pleasure. 

And be the day-star ever bright 

That leads the brave man to measure 
Human rights above all human treasure. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 147 

THE UNION. 

May the States survive forever, 

Peopled uumerous as the sand, 
Liberty open wide its arms 

To the slaves of ev'ry land. 
Oh ! may I live to see the day 

The world shall read our story, 
When a hundred stately stars 

Spangle America's glory. 

When from the winding Rio Grande 

To Canada's frozen zone 
All the altars of the nation 

Are one common hearth-stone ; 
When the jealousies of sections 

Are forgotten with the slain, 
And sweetest flowers softly bloom 

On each bloody battle plain ; 

When intelligence and progress 

In holy union conspire 
To bear aloft the great ensign 

Of Freedom and Empire. 
Though native of Old Kentuck, 

Of the dark and bloody ground, 
My heart is with the Union, 

Extensive as its bound. 

He who truly loves his country 

Makes ev'ry State his home, 
Loves no more its present greatness 

Than its grandeur to come. 
God grant, although my eyes shall close, 

The Union will never cease ; 
Oh ! may I last see my country 

In its glory and peace. 



148 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

OLD AGE IN LOVE. 

The tenderest passions of true love 
That enthuse the heart of youth, 

And vibrate in softest accords, 
Shatter age with pitiless ruth, 

Wild with weird discords. 

The dreams that young lovers dream. 
In confiding arms entwined. 

No thrilling emotions impart, 
Aged love is decrepit and blind, 

Withered, and cold in heart. 

Then fairest maids trust not thy charms 

To the arms of frigid age, 
Tempted by grandeur's sordid gold ; 

As well the daisy by thy prestige 
Bloom on a glacier cold. 

Too soon the withering blast '11 come. 
So Time and Nature 's decreed ; 

'T is written on each solemn page. 
No cold memory on love can feed 

Or warm the heart of age. 

Trust not the charms of youth to age ; 

Let passions kindle mutual fires. 
And congenial tempers e'er move 

The blazing streams of youthful desires ; 
Age can only chill love. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 149 

ADDRESS TO THE DEVIL, JULY 4, 1880. 

O ! thou who in yon cavern grim, 

Where infernal fire eternally rolls, 
Who sits upon damnation's brim 

To scorch poor, unregeuerate souls, 
Art thou lonely in thy gloomy den 

Or tortured by fiendish desire ? 
Thou 'st naught to do but roast poor men, 

Allured to fuel thy fire. 

In many pictures men portray thee — 
Horned, hoofed, and with cloven tongue. 

With long barbed tail to dismay the 
■ Faint-hearted, both old and young ; 

Some have thee a roaring lion, 
Crouching fiercely for thy prey, 

Then, like the soft music of Ziou, 
Leading even the saints astray. 

Once we are told, an angel bright, 

All was serene and heaven smiled, 
Ere down beneath the shades of night. 

By dire sin thou wast exiled. 
O ! tell us, for we long to know 

The origin of this fiery din ; 
Thou tempted mankind to his woe, 

Who tempted thee to sin ? 

How long has this sad feud lasted. 
Where the good and bad contend ? 

How many ages have been wasted, 
Will it never find an end ? 

If God contends for the right 
And thou adverse, Sir Devil, 



150 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Why does not the stronger might 
Crush out the weaker evil ? 

Some have thee eternal, uncreated, 

Tho' foi'ever steeped in sin, 
Jealous of God till at last defeated, 

Hell was digged to chain thee in. 
Is it still to revenge this mandate, 

Exiling thee from heaven's band, 
That wreaking with unvenomed hate 

Thou'd ensnare the creature, man? 

Who loosed the iron chains of hell. 

Who burst wide its brazen-bars, 
That thou might climb from gloomy cell 

To earth through clouds and stars ? 
Was it by Jehovah's permission, 

Or by thy own subtle power, 
Thyself in serpent-shape did fashion 

To carry death in Eden's bower ? 

If naught but thy wicked jealousy 

Conspired the ruin' of man, 
O, where was the omniscient eye, 

Where the omnipotent hand ? 
Saw God not in thy sneaking form 

The woes of unborn nations, 
As thou stole with murderous pride 'mong 

The fairest of his creations. 

Is 't not enough that by the fall 
Man 's doomed to mortal misery ? 

Why still with venom's bitter gall 
Pursue his wretched progeny ? 

Why dig a pit deep in the night, 
Pave its access with fond desire. 



R US TIC RHYMES. 151 

Alluring with phantom delight 
Souls to a deceitful fire ? 

Why strew the path with scented flowers 

That leads mankind down to hell, 
Why drive him 'long through lovely bowers, 

Through landscape fiiir and pleasant dell ? 
Why place him here on probation, 

His predestined woes to swell, 
If long enough before creation 

His doom was sealed in hell ? 

One alternate all must admit 

Who believe in Adam's fall, 
Thou art here by God's own permit, 

Or thou art not here at all ; 
Thou art a part of heaven's desire, 

A part of heaven's own plan ; 
As God directs, so flames thy fire, 

God's permit is God's command. 

Then, Old Nick, Satan, or Devil, 

Have mercy on us common folks, 
If thou art truly the prince of evil 

And not the butt of priestly jokes. 
We own great power in skeptic incline, 

O, forgive us if we doubt thee ; 
To save our souls, we can't divine ■ 

How the church could do without thee. 

If burning people be thy trade. 

Why is it so appalling ! 
What man among us, tried and staid, 

But prides him in his calling ! 
Then fare thee well, old Nickie, friend, 

However vile ye 're tainted, 
I '11 neither slander nor defend 

Till we are better 'quainted. 



152 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

YOU ASK ME FOR A SONG, BOYS. 

You ask me for a song, boys, 

To commemorate the slain 
Who fell in our civil war 

On every hill and jolain; 
And I am born a Southron, 

Proud of the birth and name, 
How can I sing the cause lost 

To all but bloody fame ? 

I dearly love my country, 

I hate a cause 't would sever 
The union of Freedom's States, 

Linked by God forever. 
How can I sing of chivalry, 

Of grim war's fierce display. 
Where brother butchered brother 

And father son did slay ? 

Moldering in the quiet earth, 

We 've laid them long away, 
Their spirits to the God of battle. 

Their bodies to decay. 
They were never foreign foes. 

But brothers and warm friends — 
All children of sister States, 

Where kinship nearly blends. 

Oh ! sweet may their restings be, 

The sons of the blue and gray. 
Now their spirits contend no more 

In the great eternity ; 
From the bloody field of battle, 

From its carnage and its strife, 
They may strike an armistice 

'Neath the spreading Tree of Life. 



RUSTIC RHVMES. 153 

I might sing of heroisms 

Deserving a goklen wreath, 
Brave men to the cannon's month 

Charged in the face of death ; 
I might sing of gallantry 

'Mill battle's fiercest array, 
But it pains my heart to count the dead 

Whether of the blue or gray. 

How can I sing of my country, 

Gory with crimsoned strife? 
How can I praise the valor 

That seeks a brother's life ? 
When I visit their quiet grave, 

'T is tears of remorse and shame ; 
O God, protect my country 

From civil war again ! 

O God, inspire the patriot 

In Freedom's honest toils. 
And thwart the base demagogue 

Who lives for party si')oils ! 
May men of brain and moral Avorth, 

With hearts as true and warm, 
Stand bravely at the helm of state 

And clear the rocks and storm. 



THE MANIAC. 

Is it madness, 

This strange sadness. 

That forecasts its bitter goal ? 
Tell me truly. 
Quickly, surely, 
14 



] 54 R USTIC RHYMES. 

What power unruly 

Fetters my groaning soul. 

Wild eyes beaming, 
Fiercely streaming, 

In fiendish derision ; 
Am I dreaming ? 
Is this seeming 
Fiery gleaming 

But a frenzied vision ? 

Souls undaunted, 
Spirits haunted, 

Condemned to torturing shame, 
Forever smiling, 
My soul defiling, 
My blood boiling 

In an infernal flame. 

Yes, 't is madness, ^ 
This strange sadness, 

It forecasts its bitter goal ; 
In my mad brain 
Fierce demons reign, 
And mock the pain 

That crazes my weird soul. 

Grim-visaged Death 
With fiery breath 

Tortures my burning soul ; 
This iron cell 
Is a grated hell — 
Here fierce fiends dwell 

And chorus ev'ry howl. 

Infernal desire, 
Like balls o' fire, 

Rolls through every vein ; 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 155 

The devils rend me, 
My God, defend me. 
Let death end me 

Of these infernal pains ! 

My clinking chains 
Revive the pains. 

And tell my tale o' sadness ; 
Strange confusions. 
Spectral intrusions, 
Fiery delusions — 

Surely this is madness ! 



KENTUCKY. 

Kentucky, my native home, 

I love thy name and fates, 
I love thy mountains and vales, 

Proud sister of the States ! 
O, may thou ever cherish 

For Liberty a smile ! 
Oh, may they quickly perish, 

Who Avould thy sons beguile ! 

Thou once dark and bloody ground, 

Now peaceful smiles adorn, 
Bright and fair thy pleasant homes 

And fields of waving corn ; 
No longer the fierce battle 

With blood thy forest stains, 
Where gentle herds of cattle 

Feed on thy grassy plains. 

I love thee, O land of my pride, 
By heaven richly blessed, 



156 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Great statesmen and great warriors 
Have been cradled on thy breast ; 

I love thy forests and hills, 

Thy thousand winding streams, 

Thy gushing fountains and rills. 
Sparkling like fairy dreams. 

No State in all the Union 

Can boast itself thy peer, 
Thou home of modest virtue, 

Brave men and women fair. 
I love thy cities, each temple, 

Thy halls of wealth and state. 
Thy scenery, broad and ample, 

With nature profligate. 

I boast for thee no foolish pride. 

No aristocratic birth, 
But a State of loyal Freemen, 

With hearts of honest worth ; 
I love the Union dearly, 

I love each sister State, 
Where lives and hearts and treasures 

Are linked in common fate. 

My pride is in the Union 

And the glory that awaits, 
When a hundred stars '11 spangle 

The ensign of the States, 
When from mountain-top and valley 

The voice of Freedom 's hurl'd — 
Land of fraternal union, 

The glory of the world. 

Should bloody tyrants aspire 

To build on thy ruin their thrones. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 157 

Heaven sonic humble bard inspire 

With Freedom's dying groans ; 
Let him thrill the sacred lyre 

In the ears of menial slaves, 
While Liberty's smould'ring fire 

Yet burns upon our graves. 

We '11 hear the minstrel's sad strains 

Echoing through dusky caves, 
'T will wake the spirits of our dead 

From out their deepest graves ; 
The proud spirits of our Fathers 

Will marshal on every plain. 
Where'er the sons of Liberty 

Fight Freedom's battles again. 



SPRING. 



Oh, how happy the joyous Spring ! 
The earth 's filled with its merry ring, 
From ev'ry grove, from ev'ry tree. 
The little warblers sing sweetly ; 
How softly glide the passing hours, 
Perfumed with a thousand flowers. 
Bright as fancy's radiant dream 
Is nature clothed in gold and green ! 

Winter aw^akes from his sleep 

Like some monster from the deep, 

Shakes his frozen locks, and then 

Smiles upon the world again ; 

From frosted breath the clouds diffuse 

And melt into the gentler dews, 

So breaks the chain of Nature's slave 

And looses Spring from Winter's grave. 



158 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

The fountains gushing from the hills, 
Rippling glide in sj^arkling rills, 
No longer bound by Winter's chains, 
They gently flow through grassy plains ; 
The little birds with merry song 
Greet them as they pass along, 
Timid flowers on every side 
In lovely ai-ray nod to the tide. 

Then from ice-fields darkly sleeping 
The verdant grass comes gently creeping, 
Lovely flowers softly springing. 
Every grove and field is ringing ; 
All nature thrills itself with song, 
A thousand voices still prolong, 
Harmonies vie in gentle strife. 
The world is full of joy and life. 

Of all seasons, the Spring I love. 
None other that has charms to move 
The heart and soul on fancy's Aving 
Like gentle, love-inspiring Spring ; 
The season when young lovers stray 
Where flowers fill the gladsome way. 
And sceneries fresh combined impart 
Their kindred joys to the heart. 

I have often thought of the time 
I should quit this frame of mine, 
I 've wondered on the strange powers 
That might charm its dusky hours ; 
And though no light has ever strayed 
Lito this cloudy realm of shade, 
Let me die 'mid Spring's bright shining, 
Soft as the light from day declining. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 159 

THE RURAL DOCTOR. 

A gay old lark 's the rural Doctor, 

A regular country swell ; 
The village pill and joke concoctor 

Every body wishes well. 

It minds him not how dark or dreary, 

He is always on the go, 
He never seems to tire or weary, 

Nor stop for rain or snow. 

It's midnight, a storm is blowing, 

Lightnings flash, thunders roar, 
Still he must be up and going — 

There 's a caller at his door. 

Up the mountains, over the hills. 

Despite the wind and the rain, 
Onward he dashes, rattling pills, 

Hunting human gripes and pains. 

But the Doctor's a jovial fellow. 
Full of pranks, heedless of care ; 

An inveterate old story-teller. 
He is welcome ev'ry where. 

The village counsel and adviser, 

Ev'ry body's secret-keeper ; 
None are truer, none are wiser. 

None of truth had drunk deeper. 

He 's at ev'ry birth, ev'ry marriage. 

Be the weather foul or fair ; 
Ev'ry thing would l)ring miscarriage. 

If the Doctor was not there. 

Rural doctors 're getting scarcer. 
City styles are now employed. 



160 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

The race for wealth 's maddening faster, 
Charity is all destroyed, 

The dear old family Doctor passes 

Back into another age, 
Baldhead specialists with eye-glasses 

Are becoming_all the rage. 



ONE GOD, THE SAME. 

God of nature, broad and wide, 

In universal fame, 
To whate'er myth faith 's applied. 

Thou art worshiped all the same ; 
Allah, Jehovah, Brahma, Jove, 

Men boAV before thy shrine. 
Round thy temples faith and love 

In sacred memories twine. 

Thy name 's emblazed on ev'ry star. 

Written on ev'ry flower, 
The sons of Gautama see it there 

In its majestic power ; 
It flashes in the lightning's glare, 

Roars in the thunders warm. 
The pagan hears and breathes his prayer 

To the maddening storm. 

'Mid forest deep and dark as night. 

Around his wigwam fires. 
The Indian sees Thee shining bright 

As his bosom inspires. 
Who art Thou, great power to move 

All men, both great and small, 
Allah, Jehovah, Brahma, Jove, 

Either of these, or all ? 



R USTIC RHVMES. 161 

Of the whisp'rings from cloudy spheres, 

Celestial visions fired, 
Breathed by priest in mortal ears, 

Which of all is inspired ; 
Bible, Koran, or Vedas hoary, 

Which of these are shamm'd ? 
All 'd have us believe their story 

Or be forever damned. 

Where'er extends terrestrial sod 

Or lives Thy faithful creatures. 
Thy glories, O, Eternal God ! 

Are money to the preachers ; 
The footmen of crescent or cross 

Must meet the battle's clash, 
Shed all the blood 's shed for the cause — 

The priests get all the cash. 

The pallid face of ghastly death, 

The memories of the tomb, 
A gloomy hell yawning beneath 

Gives every creed a boom ; 
The sinner must be frightened 

With the Devil's demerit, 
The elect all better enlightened 

By torturing the spirit. 

Let us reason on the nations 

Where the gods are not brothers, 
Priests of rival inspirations 

Malign and damn all others ; 
Let the Christian curse old Islam, 

And Islam return the blow, 
God will bless the liberal men 

When fanatics are no more. 



162 RUSTIC RHYMES. 



DYING FEARS. 

AYhy si^eak to me of dying fears, 

Groans of sad misgiving, 
When saw ye in the coffin tears 

Unwept by the living ? 

A thief may die with smiling face, 

Good men die repining; 
The evidence of death for 'grace 

Is irrelevant finding. 

Disease may craze the purest mind, 

Subvert ev'ry emotion. 
Till saints blaspheme like demons blind 

Or base melt in devotion. 

The great, the low, all, all must die, 

Death is unrelenting. 
Hears neither saint or sinner cry. 

Mocking or repenting. 

When I go by Nature's decree. 

Victim to mortal jjains, 
Let no ranting priest howl o'er me 

Nor slander my remains. 

Let not my cold dissolving form, 

As senseless as the clay. 
Be used to frighten bosoms warm 

Nor timid hearts dismay. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 163 



THE DEVIL'S DEAD. 

Courage, friends, the Devil's dead, 

His reign of terror 's o'er. 
Round his infernal altar spread. 
By a crafty priesthood shed, 

Are lakes of human gore. 

'Mid Inquisition's kindling fires 

He ruled with power divine, 
Superstition thro' mighty empires 
Counseled his infernal desires 

And bowed before his shrine. 

Thro' carnage, thro' dungeons and fire, 
You may track his bloody ways ; 

Hid as from a pestilence dire 

Or wailing 'ncath infernal ire. 
Truth hied from mortal gaze. 

Reason, champion of human right, 

First bid his powers defiance, 
And thro' the dusky halls of night 
Pursued the demon, gleaming bright 

The sword of Truth and Science. 

Courage, friends, the Devil 's dead. 

His iron chains are broken, 
The wretched priests who earn their bread 
Dealing in fire and melted lead 

His requiem have spoken. 



164 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

I SOMETIMES REMEMBER. 

I sometimes remember 

The days that are passed, 
From their dying embers 

The future is forecast ; 
Youth had many treasures, 

Aud, though I 'm growing old, 
To recall its pleasures 

Still warms my soul. 

Fair childhood's fancies l)right, 

Its thousand fairy dreams, 
Like the fading twilight 

Wane in gentle beams ; 
How I love to restore, 

As memory is fraught. 
The days that come no more 

Save in musing thought. 

Oh ! how like the dreaming 

Some pleasing vision o'er, 
Bright hours are beaming 

From lovely days of yore; 
But life's fondest treasures 

The shears of Time '11 sever, 
Childhood's fleeting pleasures 

Return no more forever. 

Still I'm growing older 

In this laud of decay. 
The frigid world's colder 

As the years pass away ; 
Youth, with buoyant gladness, 

Is deepening into gloom. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 165 

Age, with dusky sadness, 
Is shadowing the tomb. 

This feasting on pleasures 

That have flown for aye, 
Like counting lost treasures 

To wretched poverty ; 
But why need we sorrow 

O'er days forever gone, 
Has this life no morrow 

With its bright smiling morn ? 

Though shadows from the grave 

Around us are stealing 
True hearts, once young and brave, 

Are ne'er dead to feeling; 
A brighter hope is dawning 

In its refulgence bright, 
Silver l)eams of morning 

Gild the fading night. 



THE SUICIDE. 

The gaunt wolf is howling 
Around my humble shed, 

My shivering wife and child 
Are crying for bread ; 

Afiiiction's ruthless hands 
Lash me to my bed. 

Winter's blasts are rattling 
Beneath my creaking door, 

The cold winds are streaming 
Through cracks in the floor ; 



166 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

No food 's been provided, 
And I am sick and poor. 

The world is cold and selfish, 
It passes heedless by, 

Unheard 's afiliction's groans 
And poverty's wretched cry; 

E'en death 's unrelenting, 
Tho' I have prayed to die. 

Death's marked me for its own, 
But lingers in the strife ; 

Oh ! why should I prolong 
The remnant of a life, 

Where nature but struggles 
To mock a starving wife ! 

No, I will end this life 
That has only its bane. 

Relieve cold charity. 
And myself of pain ; 

Let the world say "He's mad, 
Fever frenzied his brain ! " 

I know they will wonder 
The rashness of the deed. 

Who ne'er knew the sorrow 
That makes my heart to bleed, 

Who ne'er felt affliction's hands. 
Nor poverty's wretched need. 

'T is weak sentimentalism 
That bids me not to go, 

My sentence has been given. 
But death respites the blow 

Till fiends, torturing me. 
Add cruelty to woe. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 167 

Whether to dark oblivion 

Or in the jaws of hell 
My poor soul is sinking, 

No power can break the spell; 
This mad infatuation 

Is tolling its own knell. 

But I hope for a rest 

This world has ne'er given, 
And I pray to my God 

This deed may be forgiven, 
May I yet find repose 

Eternally in heaven. 

Let us plant a wild thorn 

Over his lonely grave. 
Emblem of the sorrow 

His weary life did pave. 
And the anguish of soul 

That bound him like a slave. 



SECTARIANISM. 

Is the great God divided 

'Mongst a thousand schisms. 
Each denomination claiming 

The orthodox isms ; 
One Lord, one Faith, one Baptism, 

One Church supremely blessed. 
Where God smiles serenely 

But frowns on all the rest? 
As we gaze on the confusion 

That clouds this rival might, 



168 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

We pity the great Divinity 
In such a curious plight. 

The Catholics with crafty priest — 

Though reeking with pollution, 
Fifteen cents pays for mass 

And gives you absolution ; 
While some go to heaven straight, 

Some via purgatory, 
A teaspoonful of holy grease 

Will slide you into glory ; 
This big church with its little god 

Still might rule the nations, 
Had not matrimony and Luther 

Started the Reformations. 

The Presbyterians, Avith stockings blue, 

To rich blood related, 
Were predestined to heaven 

Before they were created ; 
Their faces long and sour 

With Puritanic guile, 
They expect to get to glory 

Because they never smile ; 
They boast a sure election. 

This theocratic breed. 
And damn an ignorant world 

For differing from the creed. 

The Baptists all have hard shells, 

But water is the song. 
Little children howl in hell 

Who are not a span long ; 
They monopolize the eucharist. 

For them alone given. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 169 

Every body 's going to hell 

While they go ou to heaven ; 
Rejoice iu blissful ignorance, 

Trust to inspiration, 
Illiteracy and fanaticism 

Must preach to the nation. 

The Methodists, with jovial grace. 

Rejoice in good eatings. 
Circuit round from place to place 

And hold protracted meetings, 
Take you iu on probation, 

Turn you out for jwuting, 
Start the mission-box around 

When they get 'em shouting ; 
Sprinkling, pouring, or immersion. 

Just as you take the story — 
Only, if you do n't fall from grace. 

You '11 finally get to glory. 

With Campbellites, modern Baptist, 

It 's all in the laving. 
Unless you are fairly ducked 

To hell you '11 go a-staving ; 
They twist the gospel strangely 

To make their cause out strong, 
And by their route to glory 

Ev'ry body is wrong ; 
As to the gentle spirit, 

They mock its powers given. 
Launching their souls in water 

Float calmly on to heaven. 

The Universalist's liberal creed 
Makes no long apology, 
15 



170 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

But sweeps at once a gloomy hell 

From the world's theology; 
It makes the best of life and time, 

Profiting by its story, 
All the world is saved by grace 

And sweeping on to glory ; 
When through death's dark chilly gloom 

You speed like lightning's flame. 
The blood that ope'd heaven's gate 

Closed ev'ry den of shame. 

England's church 's a lordly church, 

And sovereign if there 's any. 
Sired by uxorious Henry 

In a fit of matrimony ; 
It has regal patronage, 

Protected by law from strife, 
It cut the throat of the good Pope 

To get the king a wife ; 
Saints of aristocratic caste. 

Its sacerdotal ring. 
Have no higher praise for God or man 

Than " Long live the king." 

We '11 say naught of Mohammedan 

Nor of Brahminic order, 
Though they boast a right divine, 

'T is not upon our border ; 
Their gods or faiths may serve them, 

But why should we e'er roam. 
Who have a God of our own 

And a thousand faiths at home ; 
Why should we perplex our people 

With foreign innovations. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. Ill 

Whose gods all are strangers 
To the genius of our nations? 

We '11 say naught of Mythology, 

In praising or abusing, 
Their gods have served out their days, 

They are not for modern using ; 
We admire the poetic skill 

That charms each classic page, 
But the gods are behind the times. 

Our people and our age ; 
As to the dark Plutonic shore 

Where ancient sinners groan. 
We '11 leave all to antiquity — 

We 've devil of our own. 

The Infidels too have a creed, 

The Rationalistic schools. 
Where science measures ev'ry thing 

By hypothetic rules ; 
God is squared by a tangent 

In arithmetic spasm, 
Man 's a creature of evolution, 

Circumstantial protoplasm ; 
The baboon 's his grandfather, 

The jackass is his uncle, 
Heaven 's made of ginger-bread. 

Hell is but a carbuncle. 

We '11 put all these dogmas in a bag, 

Then shake them up and draw. 
Risk our chances in the lottery 

On the pulling of a straw ; 
But if perchance we should mistake. 

Grim be our melancholy, 



1 72 A' USTW RHYMES. 

The devil will trot us around 
To torture luckless folly, 

And deep in hell's sulphurous blaze 
Flaming conscience '11 smite one, 

As the Terrors hiss and yell, 
" You didn't draw the rig;ht one." 



YES, I'M A "CORN-CRACKER." 

Yes, I'm a "corn-cracker," 

And I 'm proud of my luck, 
Bred with the good people 

In the State of old Kentuck ; 
I boast a loyal pride 

And a reverence profound 
For each wild, weird legend 

Of the dark and bloody ground. 

I love to recall the story 

Of Boone, the pioneer, 
The hardy sons of liberty 

Who followed in his care, 
Of brave and dauntless women, 

By tender affections bound. 
Who followed their leal lords 

To the dark and bloody ground. 

Of many a wild encounter, 

And many a bloody feud 
With savage beast and savage men 

In its lonely solitude. 
By its wildest rocks and rivers. 

Each valley and each mound. 
In the deepest, darkest jungles 

Of the dark and bloody ground. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. Hi 

We Kentuckiaiis are proud 

Of the rough l)ut honest band, 
Who through forests tangled and wild 

First pioneered the land ; 
They were men of uerve and heart, 

The bravest to be found, 
Now peacefully rest their bones 

'Neath the dark and bloody ground. 

The forests long since cleared away, 

The pioneers gone to rest. 
Still the State, broad and ample, 

Peace and plenty blessed, 
Has a race of noble men. 

As true as can be found, 
Who kindly welcome the stranger 

To the dark and bloody ground. 

For the honor of our Nation, 

And its glory for aye, 
Many of its bravest sons 

Are wrapped in sacred clay ; 
And should the Nation call again. 

They will hear its war sound. 
For their spirits brood forever 

O'er the dark and bloody ground. 



WHY GROW SAD WEARILY THINKING? 

Why grow sad wearily thinking, . 

Dreaming o'er unborn sorrow. 
Are there not woes enough present 

To satiate ev'ry horror 
Without this fearful foreboding 

Of an evil to-morrow ? 



174 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

True, there are woes in store for all, 
Sad, sad woes of bitter grief! 

Who, by anticipating sorrow. 
Can bring the soul relief 

Or projiitiate evil hours 

That steal on us like a thief? 

Some are always repining the past. 
Recounting its bitterest cares, 

As if they could erase its woes 
By shedding repentant tears. 

Or frighten fate from their doors, 
Parading prophetic fears. 

Some in fear are ever dying. 
Living in perpetual dread, 

The shi'oud, the coffin, the dark grave, 
Are always before them spread ; 

Who has but once in life to die 
Should never die till he's dead. 

But who can silence the future. 
Who can e'er forget the past, 

Has not man a soul immortal, . 
Can he dwarf it like a beast, 

Lie down in dumb forgetfulness 
Like the ox after his feast ? 

Are life's grim ghosts all but phantoms 
To provoke a musing smile ? 

Is this world only a dreamland 
'Mid shadowy visions wild. 

Where all our hopes and all our fears 
Are fictions of fancy's guile ? 

Oh ! lives man not yet again 
In the future, bright or drear, 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 175 

Has he not a soul immortal, 
* Thrilled by every quick'ning fear, 
That struggles for truth within him, 
Teaching his heart to fear ? 

Still this thought will force upon us: 

Shall we lie down undismayed. 
And will the soul like the body 

Crumble back whence it was made. 
Is there nothing of man that lives 

When our body has decayed ? 

Oh ! Sjjirit of the Powers Supreme, 

Inspire our hearts and tell. 
Is life but a fleeting dream 

Where vapory shadows dwell. 
And are the s})ectral ghosts of death 

But imagination's hell? 



THE SLANDERER. 

Arch minion of the Furies, 

Thou fiend of human gore, 
The loveliest flower that blooms 

May feel thy blighting power ; 
Innocence has no protection 

Thy conscience can impart. 
Thou 'rt a worm in a rose-bud, 

Feasting on a vital part. 

How we shudder when we recall 
All that has e'er been said 

Of the tribes of human beings 
Who feed upon their dead ; 



176 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Darker still the infernal deed, 
Savage and unforgiving, 

The bloody fiends in human guise 
Who feed upon the living. 

We scorn the miscreant wretches 

Who, in their loathsome toils, 
Rob the grave and strip the dead 

To live ui>on the spoils; 
Blacker still and more hellish 

Are the foul fiends of night, 
These ghouls who rob innocence 

And strip virtue of its right. 

We contemn the vile assassins. 

Mean, mercenary, and bold, 
Who steal in the sleeping chamber 

And murder men for gold ; 
More stealthy the vile serpents 

Who, under virtue's pretence. 
Fasten their poisonous fangs 

In the heart of innocence. 



THE ABANDONED. 

On the river's murky brink 

A wretched woman stood. 
Midnight's darkest storm roared 

Above the raging flood ; 
The same sad tale, faithless love 

And betrayed confidence, 
The wiles of human villainy 

And murdered innocence. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 177 

She was young and very fair, 

He all her heart desired, 
Could his tender, loving eyes 

Be by demons inspired ? 
Could his soft and gentle smile. 

That fondly thrilled her heart. 
Be only a fiendish cloak 

Veiling a hellish part ? 

But, alas ! as sad as true 

Are life's bitter lessons, 
Though experience comes late 

To profit by confessions ; 
Would that some guardian power 

Cleared the darkness round us, 
That we might escape the wiles 

Intended to confound us. 

Oh ! fate, unkind and cruel, 

AVhere conscience has no rest, 
A fiercer storm than roared round 

Was raging in her breast ; 
Womanhood fore'er blighted, 

Fettered to remorseless shame, 
Life's unhappy future dark'ning 

With the world's pitiless blame. 

Welcome death, thou sweet solace, 

The shroud and dusky pall. 
Woman's hope fore'er blighted, 

Virtue robbed of its all ; 
Buried in murky waters, 

Where dark and fierce they roll, 
Her body to the river sharks. 

To God her wretched soul. 
16 



178 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Perhaps, if her heart was known, 

Poor, unfortunate woman. 
She yet might find sympathy 

In hearts that are human ; 
Wicked man betrays a trust 

In confidence misplaced, 
'T is woman's tenderest love 

By which she 's disgraced. 

Has poor frail humanity. 

In its deceitful care, 
Never for its own weakness 

The semblance of a tear? 
Deal gently, my erring brother. 

In every age and clime 
Ignorance is the mother 

Of human woe and crime. 



IRELAND. 



Proud sons of Old Erin, awake 

Your ancient spirit braves ! 
What rights does England give you ? 

Only the rights of slaves ; 
England, the bloody tyrant. 

Tramples your shamrock low. 
Your hands are Aveak, your hearts are strong, 

You know your crafty foe. 

'T is royalty's infernal pride 

And bloody handed might 
That, to feast its pompous grandeur. 

Would drape the world in night ; 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 179 

And yet England would talk of slaves 

And curl its lips with scorn, 
When every son of Ireland 

Is to its slavery born. 

God, curse the pride that would enslave, 

O heaven, protect the free ! 
What human rights are left to men 

When denied liberty ? 
-Then 'wake you, sons of Erin, 'wake, 

You know your cunning foe, 
If you may not meet it boldly. 

Then strike a stealthy blow. 

Old Ireland will yet be free, 

England's power must fail. 
Freedom's spirit broods ev'ry land, 

Listening to slavery's wail ; 
Despite of kings, despite of lords, 

And rights they call divine, 
There are some rights God gives to man 

Which Erin yet will find. 

The lords recline on cushioned seats, 

Their conscience light and free. 
And when the nation howls for bread 

They call it mutiny ; 
The millions toil with flesh-worn hands. 

The lords the fruit consume, 
And when they hear gaunt Hunger's wail 

They call it a commune. 

The people rise and call on God, 

The king but hears to frown. 
And seried ranks of bayonets 

Are sent to hunt them down ; 



180 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

O, Erin's sons, you have a cause 

Heaven will surely bless, 
'T is well to strike when tyranny 

Gloats over the oppressed. 

We've heard thy cry, O Ireland, 

Across the surging deep. 
And in the freedom of the States 

We 've sat us down to weep ; 
Our Nation's heart beats wild with hope, 

Success to Fenian band, 
Here Liberty opens wide her arms 

To every Irishman. 

Hither turn, O Erin in exile. 

Liberty welcomes thee ! 
Turn from the foul vampire of blood, 

Come shelter with the free ; 
The British lion, rampant, in vain 

Our younger eagle stirred. 
But fifty millions of freemen 

Now guard the full-fledged bird. 



THE HOME OF THE POET. 

Far from the busy haunts of men, 

From the world's seething strife, 
Alone with Nature in solitude. 

Breathing the air of life. 
Drinking from the sparkling fountains. 

From Nature's bosom warm, 
Resting beneath the forest's shade. 

Sheltered from sun or storm, 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 181 

Where Nature spreads her canopy, 

O'er forest, hill, and dale, 
Where rippling streams move slowly by, 

Richest perfumes exhale, 
Or where the snow-capped mountains stand, 

Giants with hoary locks, 
And time 's riven their frozen bows 

With mighty earthquake shocks. 

Gentle child of Nature, inspired 

By the wild winds that j)lay. 
While ev'ry bird, tree, and flower 

Add melody to thy lay. 
Thy home is with the elements. 

The clouds or the sunshine, 
The fiercest storms or softest dews, 

Fit companions of thine. 

Alone with Nature in her temples, 

A thousand fancies start, 
The sweet warblers of the forest 

Pour music in thy heart ; 
The very wood is filled with song. 

The rustling of the trees 
A thousand melodies prolong, 

Rhythmical ev'ry breeze. 

Child of Nature, thy proper home 

Is on thy mother's breast, 
'T is there thou hast been nourished 

And there must find thy rest ; 
When thy tuneful lyre is broken 

And the heart-strings are still. 
We '11 bury thee in her solitude 

By some soft-murmuring rill. 



. 1 82 R USTIC RHYMES. 

By the site of thy lonely grave, 

In the shadow of the wood, 
The sweetest songsters of the grove 

Will cheer thy solitude ; 
They will build their nests in the trees 

That stand beside thy grave, 
And in the rii:)pling streamlet near 

Their breasts at noontide lave. 



DEFEAT. 



A cause that 's lost in result 

Must silent be. 

They 're only free 
Who are victors to exult. 

Success, however won, is sweet 

To ears of fame, 

Political shame 
The constant factor of defeat. 

'T is not always Truth inspiring 

That leads the strong. 

Right or wrong, 
To shout while the weak are dying ! 

We 're told virtue has a cause 

God will aright 

With conscience light 
And heaven's smile of sweet applause. 

Virtue's cause 's a vision flighty, 

When bristling steel 

On battle-field 
Is the council of the mighty. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 183 

Many a barbarous tyrant gory, 

Binding his slaves 

On Freedom's graves, 
Tortures them to sing his glory. 

Had our cause of Freedom fell. 

Our Washington, 

With trator's doom. 
Had languished in a felon's cell. 

Had fortune but changed the story, 

Jackson and Lee, 

Traitors they be, 
Had filled the world with their glory. 

So, in the world's seething strife, 

Fortune's fickle smile 

Wary hearts beguile, 
Success weaves the garland crown o' life. 



HOW PLEASANT IS THE DREAMING. 

How pleasant is the dreaming 

When the summer sun is low. 
And the twilight softly streaming 

Thro' the cloud in bright halo ! 
Where the loveliest flowers bloom 

By the gentle rippling streams 
And exhale their rich perfume, 

Very pleasant is the dream. 

How we listen to the sounding 
As the bubbling waters move. 

Our throbbing hearts still bounding 
To every strain of love ; 



184 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

For we love to dwell where Nature 
Clothes the valley and the hill, 

And to drink from ev'ry feature 
Till the soul has drunk its fill. 

How our thoughts rise from dreaming 

Up to Nature's God above, 
How his bright smiles are beaming 

O'er the world in tender love ! 
As the glorious sun is sinking 

In the cloudy realm of night. 
Our hearts are filled with thinking 

On His grandeur and His might. 

Oh ! 't is sweet to muse on Nature 

And to dream its visions o'er, 
God displayed in ev'ry feature 

In His majesty and power ; 
In the gentle dew-drops falling 

O'er tender grass and flower, 
Or the fierce tornado howling 

In its unbroken power. 



SWEET SIXTEEN. 

Sweet as the flowers of the orange grove, 
Soft as the cooing of the gentle dove, 
Fairer than the smiles of beauty's queen, 
Is thy maiden dream, O sweet sixteen ! 

Thy life 's as fresh as the budding flower, 
Tliy heart 's as pure as its scented bower, 
Ere winter's blast has seared the leaf 
Or chilled the tender soul Avith grief. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 185 

My bonny maid, this radiant sheen 
Is the canopy of youth's bright dream ; 
Its hours are winged with pleasure sweet, 
Its fairest roses spring 'neath thy feet. 

How bright the sky, how sweet the song, 
That Nature's harmonies e'er prolong, 
Where radiant beauties still unroll 
As innocent as thy artless soul! 

How soon 't will pass, too soon 't will seem, 
For joyous youth with its bright dream, 
Then thy fancy can ajone restore 
These lovely hours that come no more. 



THE CONDOR OF THE ANDES. 

The condor of the Andes 

Sits high upon the rocks 
To prey upon the lambkins 

That stray from out the flocks ; 
So, even men, like condors, 

With no better pretense, 
Prey on the underling herds 

'Gardless of innocence. 

And even the proud eagle. 

The king of all the birds. 
Sweeps down from his lofty home 

Upon the menial herds ; 
The eagle, with gory talons. 

Is but a feathered thief, 
So human royalty thrives 

Upon the subject's grief. • 



186 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

'Tis not the eagle alone 

That essays lofty flights 
AVith the clouds for his home 

And his nest on the heights, 
But the ill-omened vulture, 

With broadest wings outspread, 
Descends from the mountain peaks 

To feed upon the dead. 

Even the loftiest genius, 
That pinions cloudy fame, 

Often stoops like the vulture 
To lowest depths of shame; 

Ever so the arrant pride 
That boasts a lofty birth. 

The vulture, like the eagle, 
' Broods far above the earth. 



THERE WAS ONCE A LITTLE FLEDGE- 
LING. 

There was once a little fledgeling, 

O'er-proud of his knowing. 
Who pattern'd from a big shanghai 

In his strut and crowing. 

The shanghai got on a dung-hill 

To do some tall blowing. 
The little chick came creeping out 

To praise his lord's crowing ; 

A blue-winged hawk came flying by, 

Little chick o'erpowered. 
Caught him by the tailless parts 

And quickly him devoured. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 187 

Then do n't let the bob-tail shanghai, 

Whose praise is all his own, 
Entice thee out, my little chick, 

Till thou art older grown ; 

Wait till you cut your tail-feathers 

Before you try the flight, 
And then mount on your own dung-hill 

And crow with all your might ; 

But while your spurs are very soft 

And shell still to you clings. 
Stay snugly in your little nest 

Beneath your mother's Avings ; 

You'll never know till older grown. 

And retrospective see. 
What a damnation little fool 

A small shanghai can be. ' 



LET US BE MERRY WHILE WE LIVE. 

Let us be merry while we live. 
And live while yet we may. 
This life has little to give, 
And death we can not stay ; 
Let us be cheery, boys, 
Gay and merry, boys. 
Never, never weary, boys. 
O'er the uncertainties of the day. 

Why need we to go groping. 

Looking for our graves, 
Blinded, downcast, and stooping 

Like menial slaves ? 



188 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Gay hearts beat lightly, boys, 
Daily and nightly, boys. 
Our sun sets brightly, boys. 
Haloing life's turbulent waves. 

While life is short, the sweeter 
Should be its passing hours ; 
Does sadness make us better 
Or wiser in its bowers ? 

Make the best of life, boys, 
Its cares and its strife, boys. 
Whatever is rife, boys, 
Let it be sunshine and flowers. 

And if sorrows need must come, 

Can care bring us relief? 
Oh ! then why disturb our home 
With foreshadows of grief! 
Let us live or die, boys, 
Never, never sigh, boys, 
Grief we may not try, boys. 
But live while we live — life is brief. 



TO THE LOUISVILLE MEDICAL COL- 
LEGE. 

O thou, my Alma Mater, 
And thou, my Alma Pater ! 

Equally free ; 
For my heart knows no other. 
Great scientific mother, 
Father, sister, or brother. 

Only thee. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 189 

When as Nature's simple child, 
Among her lone rustic wild, 

I have stood 
Where shone the gentle sunbeams, 
Dancing o'er meadows and streams, 
And bright as a fairy's dreams 

All the wood ; 

Then first in thy massive halls, 
In the fair City of the Falls, 

I sought fame ; 
And when first I thought to roam 
From the seclusion of home. 
To try alone life's rough storm. 

To thee I came. 

Sacred to me are thy halls. 
Where medicine rears its walls 

To truth, 
Where science with kindling blaze 
Spreads round its refulgent rays — 
I'll remember thee with the days 

Of my youth. 

It is thine ever to impart 
Truths to the mind and heart 

Of moral worth ; 
Like the pilot at his wheel, 
Or soldier on battle-field. 
To face grim woe, nor e'er yield 

Save to death, 

'T is with pride we love to tell 

Of those who 've faced shot and shell 

On battle-field ; 
But he is brave who dares stand 



190 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Where contagion's unseen hand 
Fells its victims o'er the land 
With flaming steel. 

Stays to ease a dying groan — 
The next thrust may be his own — 

Death is rife, 
Yet he stays to soothe the smart, 
Himself imperil'd, his skill impart, 
Humanity Avith weak'ning heart 

Pleads for life. 

• Thy noble art, noble science. 

Bids the powers of woe defiance, 

Superstition flee ; 
Where in life's flickering shade 
Death stands with glass and blade. 
Thy votaries, still undismayed, 

Fight for humanity. 

Oh ! little knows the world, proud 
In its mockery, cruel and loud 

In its jeers ; 
Some God only can recompense, 
Fighting humanity's defense, 
Falling where duty and conscience 

Alone appears. 

They may be kind who have spread 
Flowers o'er the harmless dead 

All undismayed, 
Who fled when th' pestilence breath 
Filled the land with woe and death, 
Every heart, dreading the shaft, 

Pleading for aid. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 191 

When will mankind with discretion 
Honor earth's noblest profession, 

Faithful from birth ? 
We praise statesmen and soldier braves, 
Each memory with our ensign waves. 
But we leave to obscurest graves 

A nobler Avorth. 

The school-boy lisps the bloody fame, 
A Napoleon's or Csesar's name. 

With abated breath. 
When '11 Harvey, Jenner, or McDowell 
Reap the praise of honest toil ? 
They 've saved millions from the spoil 

Of grizzly death. 

But he who dyes his hands in blood, 
And wrecks his country on its flood. 

Is sweet to fame, 
Tho' groaning wars like thunders break. 
The vanquished Availing at the stake, 
Fire and famine follow the wake 

With woe and shame. 



0! YE WHO WITH LONG FACES. 

O ! ye who Avith long faces 
Expect by your sour grimaces 
To merit heavenly graces. 

Ye 'ligious breed, 
To laugh a burning disgrace is 

By your creed. 

Hell was made for the dancer, 
The fiddler, and the prancer, 



192 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

While to heaven ye advance, sirs, 

All profound, 
God's greatest glory enchance, sirs. 

When ye frown. 

And sure It is a henious sin 

That wicked men should ever grin, 

But the devil will take 'em in 

To his nest 
Who madly dare to chagrin 

Righteousness. 

Is 't 'ligion or disease hepatic 

Which, like the fierce vultures emphatic 

Tore Prometheus' viscera ecstatic, 

Chained to control, 
That makes th' brain a dusty attic 

And sours the soul? 

Is it dyspepia with its brood 

Of chronic woes, impoverished blood. 

Where melancholia in sour mood 

Mounts her thrones 
And fills the heart with a flood 

Of weird groans ? 

Ye 've all marked these sour faces 

In hypochondriac cases. 

Where disease 's partner of the graces, 

Life 's unpleasant, 
Death in shadowy menaces 

Is e'er present. 

Pour rich blood into their veins. 
Let it course through health, brains. 
Rid the nerves of raging pains. 
Clean out the bile ; 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 193 

Nature '11 'wake in mellow strains 
With sweetest smile. 

'Tis not religion, 'tis disease, 
When man's genial spirits freeze ; 
Where shifts heaven's softest breeze 

On velvet cloud, 
Joyous Nature, from rocks and trees, 

Laughs aloud. 



BE KIND TO THE LITTLE CHILDREN. 

Be kind to the little children. 

Meet them where or when, 
And remember when older grown 

The boys make the men. 

The ragged urchin on the street, 

Howe'er low his station. 
May preside o'er the republic. 

The pride of our Nation ; 

The white-haired boy behind the plow 

Is in the hands of fate. 
His voice may wake the nations round 

From out the halls of State ; 

The dirty newsboy on the street, 

The bootblack in the alley. 
May lead the armies of the brave 

When Freedom bids 'em rally. 

Teach the boys pure lessons, 

May they be true and brave, 
Love the memories of their fathers, 

The rights they died to save. 
17 



194 R USTIG RHYMES. 

Teach them that truth and virtue 
Befits for every station, 

That they 're the hopes of Liberty, 
Bulwarks of the Nation. 



TO THE COMMITTEE 

Who came to inquire why I should not be dismissed from the 
Baptist Church for certain heterodox opinions. It is needless to 
say that I went out by a large majority. 

Gentlemen of the committee. 
It is a great pity 

That Ave should disagree 
In this land of churches, 
Where truth in its searches 

Finds ev'ry conscience free. 

As to Abraham or Moses, 
The contour of their noses 

Is of little worth to me ; 
All your doctrinal cavil 
But opens for the devil 

A big hole in theology. 

Thank God, this age of reason 
Makes it no longer treason 

If we should disagree ; 
The bloody Inquisition 
Has no more a mission 

For the sons of Liberty. 

A brighter day is dawning, 
All hail ! the glorious morning, 

Farewell your priestly knaves ; 
Hearts of virtuous bravery 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 195 

Scorn the menial slavery 
That binds them in its caves. 

'Tis a shabby faith, indeed, 
That prescribes a certain creed 

To fetter Almighty God, 
Where mortal men 're sinking 
For the very thinking 

Their hearts fail to accord. 

Yet you talk so sprightly, 
Really, yon delight me 

Beyond jDoetic measure ; 
The great God is chartered, 
Salvation has been bartered, 

To suit schismatic pleasure. 

Oh ! who would narrow his soul 
To the bigoted control 

Proscribing dogmas have given ; 
Rather let him converse 
With God, his universe 

Limitless love and heaven. 

No, God is fettered by rules, 
Man must be taught in schools. 

How to approach his throne, 
Nor is the untutored thought 
Simple prayer of the heart. 

Only a wasted groan. 

Is God the God of isms, 
Does he delight in schisms. 

Rich churches in haughty pride, 
Or yet has he no haunt. 
Save where ignorance and want 

Boast Avhat thriftless hands denied ? 



196 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Has the great God partial friends 
To whom a special light descends, 

Revealing all eternity, 
While other hearts are clouded 
And other hopes are shrouded 

In mystic uncertainty ? 

But when we make our searches, 
In which of all the churches 

Is the shekinah burning ? 
Oh ! where is the^solid rock 
The gates of hell will ne'er shock 

Until our Lord's returning ? 

Good-bye, messieurs committee, 
Neither your grace or pity 

Need ye reserve for me, 
I would not give my old socks 
For all your creeds orthodox ; 

Thank God, I 'm mentally free. 

Free from priest, creeds, and schisms blind, 
Free in heart and free in mind, 

I grasp Mercy by the hand ; 
The world 's too large to be proscribed, 
God's love too rich to e'er be bribed 

By any priestly clan. 

If naught but Baptists get to heaven. 
How small will be the earthly leaven 

In that great country blessed ! 
I'll sit me down on a dung-hill. 
And tune my harp to discord shrill, 

Till every soul finds rest. 

If only the few are to be blessed. 
Send me to hell with all the rest 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 197 

When I quit this mortal site ; 
'Mid flowers or flames, where'er God seuds, 
Only let me be with my friends, 

And my soul will delight. 

But grander hopes I have for man, 
A grander God to rule the land 

And soothe the soul oppressed ; 
Wherever throbs the human heart, 
Its swelling anthems upward start 

And find in Him a rest. 



GAZE ON THE DUSKY FACE OF DEATH. 

Gaze on the dusky face of Death, 

Mark the glazed and shrunken eye, 
The soul slumbers no more beneath. 

All the streams of life are dry ; 
Cold and expressionless the face. 

Dark and swollen lips betide 
No more of glory or disgrace, 

Sleep senseless of human pride. 

Where is the flick'ring flame of life 

That set these dull eyes aglow. 
Kindled dark passions into strife, 

Filled the soul with bitter woe, 
Woke the mind to immortal reason, 

Thrilled the heart with hope and love. 
Banished evil thoughts like treason, 

Centering all on God above ? 

Where's the soul-principle immortal, 
Who saw it take its wing'd flight 



198 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Upward to celestial portal — 

Downward in the gloomy night ? 

It has gone ; life and soul 've fled, 
Fierce passions no longer rife, 

We 're gazing on the solemn dead. 
Gazing on the debris of life. 

Little profits now the learning 

Spread o'er wisdom's ample page, 
Stilled the powers of discerning. 

Silent is ambition's rage ; 
All of earthly fame and glory 

Fading in this moldering heap, 
Few shall ever hear his story 

Or care to disturb his sleep. 

But what if earth's sovereigns bow 

Suppliants before his shrine. 
Can Death be flattered by mere show 

Or enthused by praise divine ? 
Will the grave repeat his fame 

Or soothe its long, dreary hours, 
If millions should exalt his name 

And wreathe his memory with flowers ? 

No lingering line e'er leaves its trace 

Upon the visage of Death, 
Deeds of honor or disgrace 

Vanish with the fleeting breath ; 
Prophetic of another world, 

We stand by life's dusky river, 
The dark waves lash in madd'ning whirl, 

Man sinks and 's lost forever. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 199 

THE LAWYERS. 

Reaped by the ruthless scythe of time, 

The okl farmer 's no more ; 
But by thrift and economy 

He left some means in store 
To save the family from charity 

And the wolf at the door. 

Worse by far than the hungry wolf 

Is that ungenerous fate, 
Where avaricious lawyers feed 

U2:)ou the dead man's estate. 
Drinking the Avidow's groans and tears 

To quench a thirst insatiate. 

The widow's cries are piteous 

And the famished wolf mourns, 
He 's watching the legal ghouls 

Torturing bereaved groans, 
Waiting till the vampires leave, 

Then he will pick the bones. 

In little costs and little fees 

The foul crime is begun, 
The estate melts like winter's snow 

Before a summer's sun ; 
Soon not a trace will be left, 

When the lawyers are done. 

Is there no power yet supreme, 

Will Mercy never S2)eak ? 
Is there no protecting arm 

To guard the innocent weak 
And save the widow and orphans 

From the law's cruel beak? 



200 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Abominable harpies ! foul birds, 
Ye feed upon the dead, 

The quivering hearts of the living 
Are round your tables spread, 

Ye are fat from human gore 
For your luxury shed. 



AS TO THE SPECIAL CREED. 

As to the special creed, 
With apostles agreed 

And John Baptist firm on, 
We '11 leave to the fighters. 
The schismatic biters. 
Theological writers. 

And let them determine. 

As to the orthodox, 

They are like chicken cocks 

Contending for the barn-yard, 
Who shall boss the hens, 
Who shall scratch the pens, 
The how's to crow and when's 

To exactly please the Lord. 

The fools fight for creeds, 
Wise men are for deeds 

Ever firmest debaters; 
The priests are all a sham, 
They do not care a d — n 
Save for the eggs and ham, 

Chicken and j^otatoes. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 201 

The churches are but schools 
Wherein they train fools 

To pay tribute to preachers ; 
The priests do the scouting, 
The women do the shoutins:. 
And the rich shell out then ; 

Oh ! they are merry creatures. 

The priests tell the story, 
Giving God all glory. 

But selfish ends discerning ; 
The priests eat the honey. 
The priests get the money, 
And fools think it 's funny 

Thus to spend their earning. 

With angelic complexion 
They take up a collection 

When the Lord is short of change, 
Then, to make you even, 
Give you a check on heaven. 
Securing what you 've given 

In celestial exchange. 

If you 'd test the preacher 
As any other creature, 
■ Thus try the sacred scholar, 
Test him by this fashion : 
Strike him on his ration, 
You '11 find his holy passion 
Is measured by the dollar. 



18 



202 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

THE GODS. 

High on his great Olympic throne 

Jove majestically reclined, 
Ancient Rome and classic Greece 

Bowed suppliants at his shrine ; 
From his dark brow the black'niug storms 

Maddened before his breath, 
And lightnings flashed and thunders roar'd. 

The earth trembled beneath. 
But the Thunderer loved his people. 

And, with his ensign unfurled. 
Ancient Rome and classic Greece 

Ruled all the then-known world 
Till Frank and Goth with fiery gods. 

War-like and infernal, 
O'erthrew Olympus and its powers 

With all its gods eternal ; 
So Rome and Greece are now no more. 

Save in classic diction. 
The prowess of their mighty gods 

Survives only in fiction. 

In ancient Israel, we are told, 

Jehovah was respected, 
And from Sinai's flaming heights 

Her martial hosts directed ; 
Forth from the flames he flashed his laws. 

Swelling in thunder tones. 
The trembling mountain shook with fear, 

Nature convulsed in groans; 
Enthroned upon a blazing cloud, 

With vapory spear all gory, 
He swept before them like a storm 

And led them on to glory ; 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 203 

But His people fore'er scattered, 

His grandeur long since flown, 
His temple has been pillaged 

And prestige overthrown ; 
All his ancient powers humbled. 

E'en as the gods of Rome, 
He lives only on a pension 

Bequeathed him by his son. 

So gods, like empires, crumble 

Before the breath of time, 
A nation rises but to pass away 

\yith all its gods sublime. 
Where now is Egypt or Chaldea, 

Lineages of learned priest, 
Gods that gave them wealth and power. 

Promising never to cease ? 
Through thousands of circling years " 

Men bowed before Osiris, 
With faith bright they sought his aid, 

Dying, entered his paradise ; 
Many whisperings from spirit-land. 

Breathed by prophet, priest, or sage, 
Told how the powers behind the clouds 

Would rule in every age ; 
Still the searing blast of time 

Humbled these ancient powers. 
Shook their fierce gods from out the clouds 

And 's given place to ours. 

To-day, where living empires move. 

Mighty arms shake sea and land, 
Other gods have been enthroned 

Suited to present demand ; 



204 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Buddha, Brahma, Mahomet, Christ, 

Great gods of mighty nations. 
While the present empires last 

Will ne'er lose their occupations. 
But as the ruthless course of time 

Rolls on in centuries' flight, 
'T will leave the nations in decay, 

Histories in forgotten night. 
Other nations and other gods 

Will survive our long decay. 
And wonder on the strange people 

Who lived in our day ; 
As they worship their living gods 

They will fable out our own, 
Marking each sad infatuation 

Binding us to gods unknown. 



TRUTH AND RIGHT. 

Oh ! may we learn truth 

From nature's ample page, 
The tinted bloom of youth, 

The seared leaf of age, 
For ev'ry hour imparts 

This saddest confession, 
The errors of our hearts 

Form life's bitter lesson. 

Eternal truth and right 
Will survive the powers 

Of iron-handed might 

Tho' crushed like frail flowers. 

They will bloom in the heart 
Of virtuous and brave, 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 205 

Waiting life's spring to start 
From winter's frosty grave. 

They may be crushed by hate 

Where hypocrisy's smiles, 
As by an unseen fate, 

Lend aid to wicked guiles ; 
But like lovely flowers 

Our genial thoughts impart 
Love 's mellowing showers 

To the growth of the heart. 

A host of wacked schemes 

May thrive on innocence, 
Until all virtue seems 

Without human defense ; 
Retribution will come. 

However long delayed. 
When like the maddening storm 

Its wrath can not be stayed. 

Innocence will find rest 

Hope and faith have given. 
Above life's raging blast, 

'Neath the smiles of heaven ; 
Fond hope, 't is ample pay 

To bosoms leal and true, 
Nearing eternity 

We bid this world adieu. 

While we live, still recall, 

With each vapory breath, 
Time has mortgaged its all 

To the powers of death ; 
Life 's but a meteor's blaze, 

Only a flash of light, 
Black clouds engulf its rays 

And darker grows the night. 



206 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

OUR COUNTRY, AND OUR COUNTRY'S 
FLAG. 

Our country, and our country's flag, 

Unfurl the stars and stripes beside 
Where freemen shout in triumph loud, 

Rejoicing in a Nation's pride ; 
Home of the great, land of the free, 

Washed in the blood of patriot braves, 
Long may thou stand a beacon light 

To warn the tyrant and his slaves ! 

The shrill voice of Patrick Henry 

Thrills us from the land of dream, 
The blood of Lexington and Concord 

Pours fore'er a crimson stream ; 
Immortal sons of Liberty, 

Who scorned to be England's slaves, 
Can we e'er dishonor the flag 

That yet floats above their graves ? 

Look toward Bunker's blood-stain'd hill, 

Where towers 'loft our marble pride, 
There Warren fell, and there his blood 

Still swells Freedom's glorious tide ; 
See Valley Forge's dismal camp, 

And live its bitter winters o'er, 
There mark the foot-prints of Freedom 

In bloody tracks thro' ice and snow. 

We honor our illustrious dead, 

We hallow their sacred graves ; 
Shall we not love our country 

As we love its patriot braves? 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 207 

May we not cherish the fond hope 

The Union will forever stand, 
And Liberty ope wide her arms 

To the slaves of ev'ry land ? 

Cursed be the treachery of Arnold ! 

Black be his living disgrace, 
Who can be tempt'd by British gold 

To sell his conntry's hope and peace ! 
A stench in the nostrils of Freedom, 

A foul putrescent odor, 
That leaves him to enjoy alone 

The base title of traitor. 

How glorious our Washington, 

Whose memory none can e'er deride, 
At whose shrine a Nation bows. 

Whose life is his country's praise ; 
Fifty millions of true freemen. 

Who never bowed the servile knee. 
Are ready with their arms and wealth 

To defend his memory. 

High unfurl our streaming banner. 

Freemen, rally to its side, 
Tho' baptized in blood and fire 

Still it is the Nation's pride ; 
May ne'er the land of Washington, 

That Arnold could not betray, 
Be less the land of hope and pride, 

God's chosen laud of Liberty. 

Proud kings, with self-imposed glory 
Man's natural rights you have spurned. 

Look to the land where all are free. 
Where every wandering eye is turned, 



208 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Hear Freedom's loud exultant shout 
Swelling in mighty thunder tones, 

Shaking the empires of the earth 
And tottering imperial thrones ! 



WILD OATS. 

He sowed wild oats Avith liberal hand, 
Regardless of the soil or sand, 
Sowed in vice and reaped in grief; 
The harvest passed without relief. 
The winter came in raging blast, 
Howling over profligate waste ; 
So age creejas on with pitiless ruth" 
To mock the days of wasted youth. 

Joyous youth in its rosy prime 
Promised perpetual spring time, 
It seemed as if its sun-lit hours 
Would glide fore'er 'mid lovely flowers, 
Where balmy clouds and gentle dews 
O'er nature wide their charms diffiise. 
Until the world all seemed, forsooth, 
But life's perennial spring of youth. 

But Eldorado's famous fountain 
Gushes no more from ancient mountain. 
No more its streams of youth are spread. 
Its plains are dry, its flowers dead. 
Ye withered crones, now read the truth, 
Youth is its own fountain of youth, 
A few short years its beauty streams, 
Then fades away like fancy's dreams, 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 209 

Youth oft' drinks of folly's draught, 
Though poisonous ev'ry drink quaffed, 
Pleasure 's environed with sorrows 
Where death tips a thousand arrows ; 
Fools, attrac'd by show and glitter, 
Reap life 's experience bitter, 
But wisdom, crowned by common sense. 
Profits by fool's experience. 



THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 

On Plymouth's dreary rock 

The Pilgrim Fathers landed, 
Who in a common cause 

A common fate had banded ; 
For freedom of conscience 

They plow^ed the stormy sea, 
To plant on a frozen shore 

The germ of Liberty. 

Upon a rugged rock, 

'Mid winter's howling groan, 
Roughly hewn honest hearts 

Erected Freedom's throne, 
Through years of sorest trials 

Tyranny's shocks withstood. 
Consecrating the soil 

With their own sacred blood. 

Little dreamed the toil-worn few. 
Struggling 'gainst the Fates, 

They were in Freedom's halls, 
In the proud realm of States, 



210 R USTIC RHYMES. 

That God would build a home 
To Kshelter the oppressed, 

Where Freedom fore'er Avould smile 
On ev'ry human breast. 

O God, bless the May Flower ! 

Long may its name survive, 
And glorious States yet unborn 

Keep its memory alive; 
For when Freedom's voice called 

Her sons to rise and arm, 
The Pilgrims responded 

Nobly to the alarm. 



WE HAVE MET AND WE HAVE PARTED. 

We have met and we have parted, 

The last farewell has been spoken. 
The vows of love that bound us 

Are now forever broken ; 
My bosom 's filled Avith anguish, 

My soul with passion is bound. 
My heart is bleeding strangely. 

Bleeding from its secret wound. 

We had quarreled, as lovers will, 

Mindless of contention's shroud, 
For I was frigid and formal 

And she was haughty and proud ; 
Well, I thought that she loved me. 

That her heart was leal and true,' 
Once she smiled as if relenting, 

Then coolly bid me adieu. 

She was the idol of my heart 
And Avas to have been my bride. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 211 

Only a foolish little jest 

Poisoned our souls with its pride ; 
But one word, one smile, or one look 

Had spared the broken-hearted, 
And all would have been forgiven 

And we had never parted. 

I '11 send her back her letters, 

Their presence strangely grieves me, 
I '11 tell her I've forgotten all. 

Perhaps she will believe me ; 
But I '11 keep this lock of hair 

To remember its pleasures, 
She 's forgotten it, no doul)t, 

Tho' greatest of my treasures ; 

I '11 keep this little rose-bud too, 

Its memories are so bright. 
She pinned it on my coat one eve 

When kissing me a good-night ; 
And this little bunch of cedar, 

It fills my heart with pain, 
She told me that she 'd love me 

Till I returned it again ; 

This bouquet of forget-me-nots 

I guard with tender est care, 
I have kept as a souvenir 

Since I clipped it from her hair ; 
She told me passions were fatal, 

If ever I felt their grief 
To send it back to her again, 

She'd come to my relief. 

But when by its haughty pride 
The frail human soul is bound, 



212 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Even though the heart 's bleeding 
It tries to conceal its wound ; 

So I will nurse my sorrow, 

None shall ever hear my groan, 

The fierce pains that tear my heart 
Will be forever unknown. 

I have met her on the street, 

She passes silently by, 
No gentle smile upon her face 

Nor glistening tear in her eye ; 
As cold as the marble slab 

Indexing a quiet grave, 
I pass her as I Avould the dead, 

x\nd yet I am her slave. 

But sometimes I meet her now 

In the fancy of my dreams. 
Where passions are not deceptive 

And love is all that it seems, 
In my fancy catch her smile 

With its thousand sunny rays. 
Where soft eyes are beaming love 

As they used in other days. 



ON RECEIVING NOTICE THE CHURCH HAD 
EXCOMMUNICATED ME FOR HET- 
ERODOXY. 

Old Zion's ship is coursing on, 

'Mid the stormy waves and gales. 
They 've flung the poet overboai'd 

Like Jonah among the whales ; 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 213 

But his soul is still undaunted, 

'Mid life's ocean, surging dark, 
He rides the monsters of the deep 

And chases the raging shark ; 

When the tempest clouds all vanish 

And truth's golden light breaks through, 

You '11 find him still upon the wave, 
Still " paddling his own canoe." 

All the nations will join the song, 

Nor Inquisitions gory 
Drive mankind to a fiery hell 

And shut the gates of glory ; 

Election must go to the bad, 

Hell yet will bloom with roses, 
When kings and priests take to the plow 

And prejudice reposes. 



OH! OUR BOYS DREAM OF JOYS. 

Oh ! our boys dream of joys 
When they flirt the girls, 
But believe me. 
They '11 deceive thee. 
They '11 grieve thee. 
If thou pull their curls. 

It 's charming, not alarming. 
To kiss their pretty beaks ; 

Can't refute it, 

Don't dispute it. 

Just impute it 
To their blushing cheeks. 



214 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Be careful, e'en prayerful, 
Love 's a two-edged dart ; 
Though it's fun, sir, 
When begun, sir. 
Ere thou 'rt done, sir, 
Thou 'It have lost thy heart. 

It is pleasing, cooing, teasing, 
Flirting the charming girls ; 
Sweet arid fair, sir. 
Then take care, sir, 
And beware, sir, 
There 's danger in the curls. 



A TOAST— THE WINE. 

Here, by our friendship eternal, 

Is to the blood of the grape. 
Here we scorn powers infernal 

And destiny's evil shape ; 
Oh ! would to God no greater woe 

Human conscience e'er belied ; 
Oh ! would that crime, all crimson'd o'er, 

By deeper stain was ne'er dyed. 
Beside, I 've a secret to disclose, 

To you I '11 freely make it : 
They all take it under the rose. 

Blessed or cursed — they all take it. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 215 

A TOAST— WOMAN AND WINE. 

Here 's food for heart and food for brain, 

A surcease from human strife, 
An antidote for ev'ry bane 

That poisons the stream of life ; 
A surfeit of love leads to loathe, 

A surfeit of wine to decay, 
We '11 mix life's cup gently with both 

And we '11 be happy alway. 



TO ROBERT INGERSOLL. 

Ah ! Bob, dear Bob, thou 'st done a deal 

With strange talk and visions flighty. 
As if the world was one small field 

And thou thyself God Almighty ; 
Thou hast told us. Bob, there 's no hell 

To open wide its grim portals, 
No devil in his dusky cell 

Torturing souls of immortals ; 

Thou 'st prated 'bout fether Adam 

And great-grandmother Eve "to boot," 
Thou'st told that 'tis all a sham, 

This talking snake and mortal fruit ; 
Then there was one 2:>ious Moses 

At whom thy wicked puns thou poke, 
And so old Sinai reposes 

All in the shadow of thy joke. 

Through ev'ry sacred field of glory 
Thou 'st plow'd with dirty satire. 

Waded through life's eternal story 
As if 't was only filthy mire ; 



216 R USTIC RHYMES. 

Thou 'st torn wide the nation's heart, 
Disturbed society's repose, 

As if thou 'd other gods to impart, 
Other religions to disclose ; 

Thou 'st ridiculed old Balaam's ass. 

Thou 'st said 't was all a joke, 
These legends of the fabled past, 

When the snakes and asses spoke ; 
Thou 'st derided the patriarchs hoary. 

From old Noah's big floating tub 
To Joshua's great sun-story. 

And chariots with flaming hub ; 

Thou hast laughed at faithful Daniel, 

Mocked his holy prayer toward Zion, 
As if his den held a spaniel, 

Not a carniverous lion ; 
Even old Jonah and his gourd 

Have felt thy vengeance gory, 
As if credence could not afford 

To swallow just one fish-story. 

The prophets, seers, and the preachers. 

All have felt thy subtle shaft, 
Painted up as cunning creatures 

Or fossils at whom to laugh. 
Thou 'st made the church and its steeple 

Only emissaries of the graves. 
Wherein the priests herd the people 

And frighten tribute out of slaves ; 

Thou 'st told us, Bob, that priestly craft 
Arrayed earth in its present plight — 

In our sleep sometimes we 've laughed 
And half dreamed thou art right ; 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 217 

But then, dear Bob, heaven, you know, 

Is to th' elect a thing o' beauty, 
And hell, if but an old scare-crow. 

Drives the recreant to duty. 

Now, Bob, e'en grant that thou art right. 

And for once we'll not dispute it. 
Would not society be a fright 

If all believed as thou impute it? 
Shall Ave throw around society 

No restraint to guard its border? 
If virtue needs no spur to piety, 

Vice must be driven to order. 

But then, dear Bob, there 's many a wrong 

That well might be arighted, 
The weak 's ojipressed, and e'en the strong 

By cunning knaves affrighted; 
In ev'ry land, in ev'ry clime. 

The vast millions are distressed, 
Exempt from tax l)ut not from crime, 

A few enslave all the rest. 



FOR HEARTS THAT ARE LEAL AND 
TRUE. 

The clouds are lifting from out the morning. 

The light is streaming through, 
A brighter and better day is dawning 

For hearts that are leal and true. 

Steady, my friends, nor e'er swerve from the line. 

Conscience is a plummet sure, 
The right will survive all the wrongs of time 

For hearts that are leal and true. 
19 



218 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

When with death are numbered all now alive, 
And their graves are wet with dew, 

The memory of noble deeds will survive 
For hearts that are leal and true. 

The future will judge though flatterers applaud. 

The lives of all 't will review, 
When the slanderer sleeps in his silent shroud 

Nor maligns the leal and true. 

Then strive for the right, but not like a slave 
Who is bribed or driven through. 

The hypocrite has an inglorious grave. 
Never hearts that 're leal and true. 



HYPOCRISY. 



How oft' religion's fair masks 

Disguise the Devil's ftice 
Until he performs his tasks. 

Thus sheltered from disgrace. 
Oh ! wretched dissembling guile, 

Even virtue's cause bleeds. 
Devils with angelic smiles 

Clothe their infernal deeds. 
Religion 's oft but a cloak 

To hide some monster sin. 
Black vice with wrinkled visage, 

Crouching with fiendish grin, 
A mean, subtle, lurking foe, 

On foulest crimes intent, 
A snare to the unsuspecting, 

Unwary, and innocent. 



R US TIC RHYMES. 219 

THE MURKY CLOUDS WERE LOWERING. 

The murky clouds were lowering 

O'er forest, field, and glen, 
When in fancy I wandered forth 

To view the cares of men ; 
The winter, black and menacing, 

Gathered in all its wrath, 
From clouds of snow and streams of ice 

Frowned darkly on my path. 

The world seemed like a busy hive 

Filled with honeyed treasures. 
And men, like bees, were buzzing round 

Searching for its pleasures ; 
Some had merry faces and hearts, 

Despising woes and cares. 
While others, weighed down with^orrows. 

Trembled always with fears. 

Some, with faces as fair as the morn, 

Lived for gayest digressions. 
And some, all sore and forlorn. 

Like sad funeral processions ; 
Some dwelled alone with the living, 

Where fairest hours are spread. 
Others lived among old graveyards, 

Fit companions of the dead ; 

Some moved through life in easy paths. 
Treasures strewn where'er they stray. 

While others, straining ev'ry nerve, 
Scarce could drive the wolf away; 

Ev'ry thing some touched was gold, 
The philosopher's stone theirs, 



220 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Yet others, equally alert, 

Were fed on beggars' prayers ; 

Some dwelled in stately mansions grand, 

All with human pride inspired. 
Where Plenty with her lavish hand 

Heaped what the heart desired ; 
Some hard by, in wretched huts 

'Neath shadows of lordly waste, 
Gaunt with hunger and poorly clad, 

Shivered in the wintry blast ; 

Some too seemed favorites of health, 

Disease relenting its ruth, 
The ruddy glow upon the cheeks 

Marked its perpetual youth, 
Others, infected from their birth. 

From maternal bosoms warm. 
Disease through life with vicious breath 

Haunted to pain and deform ; 

Some, formed symmetrical and erect. 

Easy in manners and grace. 
Were perfect pictures of manhood 

Typed in mind and in the face. 
Others only freaks of nature ; 

Some were deaf, some dumb, some blind. 
Or hideous in ev'ry aspect 

Elevating to human kind ; 

Some Nature with intellects endowed. 
Generous favor, the cultured mind, 

Standing forth lords of creation 
Where reason rules, all sublime ; 

Some decreed idiots and imbeciles. 
Born to the lowest repute, 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 221 

Without e'eu the semblauce of minds, 
Lower than the dullest brute. 

Even iu the vacillant taste, 

Cajiacity to enjoy life, 
Nature still had its favorite pets 

Protected in ev'ry strife ; 
There 's not a sphere in which men move. 

Nor boon to mortals given, 
Save where Nature with partial grace 

Meted out its hell or heav'n. 

No wonder that the human mind 

Is shocked with grief and fears, 
When we look round the world its smiles 

Are mingled all with tears ; 
The few are born to golden luck, 

The millions are distressed, 
And ev'ry path of pleasure leads 

O'er prostrate and oppressed. 



WE'VE LAID HIM AWAY IN A COLD, 
COLD GRAVE. 

We ' ve laid him away in a cold , cold grave, 

A rough slab at his head, 
His soul is gone, God only knows where — 

We only know he 's dead. 

The face that met us always with smiles, 

Smiles in death, and it seems, 
So natural liis look, he only slept 

Wrapped iu pleasant dreams. 



222 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

As time courses on aud the years roll by 

Till his memory 's faded, 
Who will distinguish his scattered dust 

From dust where we've laid it? 

Let seers and prophets and priests now tell 

What ancient legends said 
Of the veil rent in the mystic realm — 

We only know he 's dead. 



BEAUTY AND GRACE MEN SELDOM 
DERIDE. 

Beauty and grace men seldom deride, 
Excepting those to whom denied; 
Ill-favored genius scorns'their power. 
But, like the fox, the grajies are sour. 
And oft poor and humble worth 
Contemns titled grandeurs of earth. 
'T is well that each heart can impeach 
The pleasures far beyond its reach. 
And press home the consolation. 
Itself a favorite of creation ; 
'T is well that the plebeian can sing, _ 
" God digged a hell to damn the king." 
Ignorance moral exemption claim. 
What man never knew who can blame ? 
Fools hold the wise in resentment. 
That all may live blessed Avith contentment. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 223 

' THE BACKWARD SPRING OF 1881. 

Oh! gentle, mellow, balmy spring, 

Many hearts it has cheered, 
Still in winter's arms it clings, 
Flopping 'bout with snowy wings 

And frost npou its beard. 

The frogs croak by the ice-pond, 

The ground-hog 's hibernating, 
With frozen hearts we look on. 
Listening to its plantive song, 

Sadly prognosticating. 

The swallow and the robin 

Have come without the flowers. 
No cheering bosoms throbbing. 
Bleak winter still absorbing 

Nature's verdant powers. 

The snakes and beetles dormant, 

The crickets refuse to sing. 
No other beast or varmint. 
Save man alone in torment, 

Is waiting for the spring. 

Carry us to the apothecary, 

We '11 all get drunk together ; 
In this world bleak and dreary 
Man can find enough to weary 

Without troubling the weather. 

Here 's health to the poets of spring, 

To all who love a rhyme ; 
As our voices gladly ring, 
Fill the cups with cheer we bring, 

And drink health to the spring time. 



224 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

A CRUEL TAUNT, A SIMPLE JEST. 

A cruel taunt, a simple jest, 
May rancor in the human breast, 
Thoughtless words, unguarded spoken, 
Friendship's strongest ties have broken ; 
For little words, like little weeds. 
Smother the growth of better deeds. 

Gentle smiles confidence impart, 
Kind feelings warm the chilly heart, 
Simple words but softly si^oken 
Heal the heart by sorrow broken; 
So little flowers do exhume 
When fully grown richest perfume. 

Then from these truths a lessons learn, 
•All silly words and actions spurn, 
For little words are mighty things 
When joy or grief each passion brings, 
Roughly wounding or gently healing 
When applied to human feeling. 



TO THE EXILED EMPRESS EUGENIE, 
OF FRANCE. 

Wretched woman, by cruel fate 
Torn from the throne of regal state, 
Must France bow a menial slave 
To save thee from a plebeian grave ? 

Shall claims of blood and titled birth 
Exalt thee to unmerited worth, 
To pomp and show and vain delights 
Bought at the price of human rights? 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 225 

The world marks with curious smile 
The tears of monarchs in exile 
Pleading for sovereignty of nations, 
Power once held by usurpations. 

Well may Liberty's sons deride, 
Aud jeering mock thy Bourbon pride, 
Condemning millions to distress 
That thou might be an empress. 

Is human pride so far debased, 
Liberty 's butchered for mere caste. 
And Freedom condescends to sing 
In servile lays, " Long live the king ? " 

Thinkest thou not that slaves have groans 
As well as monarchs without thrones ? 
Must human tears flow in deep tide 
To fill the hearts of lordly pride ? 

Oh ! curse the fate that has given 
Mankind no rights 'neath the heaven 
But to be born in menial brood, 
Slaves to aristocratic blood. 

Is it better France, like a slave, 
Be bound in chains on Freedom's grave. 
Or that her exiled monarch sleep 
And queen for regal splendors weep ? 

Oh ! Liberty, extend thy light 
To ev'ry land in slavery's night, 
Till ev'ry throne 's a fun'ral pile 
And every monarch an exile ; 

Unfurl thy flag above each dome, 
Protect the rights of ev'ry home. 
Teach mankind that truest bravery 
Prefers death rather than slav'ry. 

20 



226 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

OLD MARGARET DUNN, THE WITCH, 
AND PARSON JONES. 

Old Margaret Dunn, of Stoner's creek, 
Of whom our county legends speak, 
No mongrel blood flowed thro' her veins, 
Nor sympathy for human banes ; 
She was a witch, a witch indeed, 
A stalwart of the noblest breed, 
Hers the papers, as all could tell. 
Signed by the sovereign prince of hell. 
Commissioned by infernal right 
To work her charms day and night. 
Old Marg. lived in a hovel poor, 
All thatched with straw, of earth the floor, 
Which hung upon a clifi" above. 
Like a rude box or cote for dove ; 
But Margaret was a fright to see. 
Old and stooped and wrinkled was she, 
Bald as an owl, and toothless yet 
Till her nose and chin almost met. 
Blear-eyed and mean for meanness sake, 
A witch she was without mistake. 

Now, Parson Jones lived in the glen : 
The parson was the best of men, 
A Methodist of the old school, 
Who 'd pray and shout by love-feast rule ; 
It was the good parson's delight 
To say his prayers both day and night, 
" Since Hardin Stallers, strong and stout. 
Left Black Lick and Stoner out." 
Now twice each month, when Sunday reached. 
He at Black Lick and Stoner preached ; 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 2T1 

From ev'ry hill and ev'ry ranch, 
Robinson's creek and Button's branch, 
Came rustic lads and blooming lasses, 
Both old and young in seried masses. 
To hear the parson's well-tuned sound 
Wake all the hills with echoes round. 

But Parson Jones was sore distressed, 
One thought forever broke his rest, 
Where'er he went, whate'er his mission, 
He saw old Marg.'s ap^^aritiou ; 
Her spectral self hung round his way. 
Haunting his dreams both night and day, 
Nor had he power of mind or arms 
To stay her cunning or her charms. 

Some said the parson's mind was weak, 
Some said that he was only sick. 
But nostrums much nor prayer profuse 
His wretched soul could disabuse ; 
Not indigestion's wicked banes 
That racked his bones at morn with pains, 
It was old Marg., who, by her spell, 
Had ridden him o'er hill and dell. 

When first old Marg. the parson met. 
They both were free and sinless yet ; 
'T is true she had her black commission. 
But he was not in its mission. 

Now, old Marg. on a forage went, 
On bird or fowl or pig intent, 
But, luckless for the parson's peace, 
Fell into a flock of his geese ; 
Now, Parson Jones, in Scripture way, 
Was on the " watch as well as pray," 
He bounced old Marg. with courage true 
And beat the wench till black and blue ; 



228 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

When this she said, hobbling away : 
" Ah, Parson Jones, thou 'It rue this day ; 
I'll send disease and hawk and owl, 
Thou 'It never raise a goose or fowl, 
Thou 'It curse the day and hour, son. 
Thou laidst thy hand on Margaret Dunn." 
True to her threat, that very day 
The hawks and owls commenced their prey, 
And all they left from perch or shed 
Dropped one by one and fell down dead ; 
When all were dead save one old goose. 
The parson sat with thoughts morose, 
The old goose flopped close to his side, 
Uttered a groan, fell down and died. 

At home sat Marg. with bitter heart. 
Brewing her charms in hellish art. 
Weaving in grief with dire groans 
And vengeance for old Parson Jones ; 
Not yet enough, what witch 's content 
Or to mercy can e'er relent, 
If for lost fowls only he groans. 
He yet shall wail for his own bones. 

Now, Parson Jones had heard it said, 
If one would burn the witched when dead, 
Despite of all her cunning care 
The guilty witch would straight appear ; 
Scarce sunk the last goose to repose 
When in the fire her carcass goes, 
And scarce the flames the fowl spread o'er. 
Old Margaret stepped within the door. 

Parson, she said, with right good will. 
Loan me your horse to ride to mill ; 
Begone, he said, thou demon base. 
Out of my house, ofi" of my place, 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 229 

Nor grace my sight, nor ever more 
Bring thy mean form within my door ; 
What needs devil or witch for nag, 
Go ride thy broom, thou wretched hag ! 
Parson, she said, I'll bend thy pride, 
I '11 go this night, and I will ride 
As noble steed as ever queen 
Rode on the mission of a fiend. 
Casting on him a wicked glare, 
She left him with a queenly air. 

The Parson barred his doors that night. 
Unchained his dogs, his guns rubbed bright. 
Picked the flint and powdered the pan, 
Placed his best ax ready for band ; 
On the Bible a tallow light 
Burned dimly the dreary night. 
He read and prayed and, singing, roared 
Till heavy sleep his limbs o'erpowered. 
True to her threat, old Margaret came, 
The dogs all cowed before her tame, 
She greased a straw with magic grease. 
And slipped thro' the key-hole with ease. 
Bridled the parson with silk thread 
And gently drove him out of bed. 
As to the parson, he but dreamed. 
For through his sleep her magic streamed ; 
He dreamed himself on a tour. 
Black Lick would get a sermon sure. 
As to old Marg. , with magic cold 
She drove her steed through the key-hole, 
And mounting, like an airy sprite, 
She spurred the courser on his flight; 
Over hills and hollows far and wide, ' 
O'er miry bogs and raging tide, 



230 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Through briars, bushes, and rough places 
She drove him on in weary paces ; 
And thus she rode the live-long night, 
Urging her steed to better flight. 
But brought him home ere it was light 
And placed him on his couch aright ; 
But ere she left, she whispering spoke, 

" Old Marg.'s been here !" Straight he awoke- 
But never a trace of the old crone. 
Save matted hair and aching bone. 
Thus ev'ry night the old witch came, 
And ev'ry night rode him the same. 
And each time whispered in his ear : 

" Parson Jones, old Marg.'s been here." 
Thus, till all strength and courage fled. 
Nor could he rise next day from bed ; 
Slow pining 'way with quick'ning breath, 
Old Marg. had rode him to his death. 



OH! FILL UP THE BOWL AND PASS IT 
AROUND. 

Oh ! fill uj) the bowl and pass it around, 

We '11 drink to the health o' the living ; 
Quietly our fathers sleep in the ground, 
Unconscious of life's misgiving. 
Why dream ye of fear ? 
Why mourn over care ? 
In the wine or beer 
The sorrows of life ye may drown. 

Let teetot'lers sing of the sparkling wave 
Filled with beauty and happiness bright, 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 231 

Have we in our midst a base-born slave 
Who will desert the board to-night? 

Fill with sparkling wine, 

Come bow at its shrine, 

By Nature designed 
To shroud unwonten cares for the grave. 

The woes of life are bitter, ray friends, 

Thickly they are falling 'round us, 
And as we mark the uncertain ends 
The darkness still confounds us ; 
A surcease from horror, 
A solace for sorrow, 
Joy without a morrow. 
Where souls are happy mindless of ends. 

Who will upbraid us for seeking repose 

From torrents of care brooding within ? 
Why sharpen each conscience to disclose 
The filthy depths of human sin ? 
Let 's bury ev'ry grief, 
Sink our sorrows beneath, 
This life is too brief 
To shadow one moment of time with woes. 

Then fill up the bowl, boys, laugh and be gay, 

Nor count your sorrows ere they come, 
1^ must gather sweet flowers in May 
Befoi-e they wither and are gone ; 
Gaily quaft* the cup, boys. 
Mingle the wine and joys, 
Life's cares are all but toys, 
Let 's rejoice and be merry in our day. 



232 RUSTIC RHYMES. 



MAN ALONE OF ANIMAL KIND. 

Man alone of animal kind, 

Who boasts the heritage of a mind, 

Must chain his immortal reason 

Or be damned by church for treason, 

Be tethered to the blindest faith, 

A criminal to stinking death ; 

Ev'ry draught from priest, smile or frown, 

Must close his eyes and gulp it down, 

Nor ask to see the nauseous potion 

Lest, seeing, he should change his notion. 

So jealous are the gods of faith, , 

To doubt a priest's eternal death. 

Is mind to such low depths sinking 

That priests alone do the thinking. 

Or is faith of such tender parts 

That reason spoils its little tarts? 

O, reasoning man, awake, awake! 
The iron chains of slav'ry break ! 
Kings nor priests were made to rule, 
Save those the weak and these the fool ; 
Where Nature has bequeathed a mind. 
For nobler purpose 't is designed 
Than boAv fore'er a cringing slave • 

Or sleep within a hermit's cave. 
What for your eyes, unless to look 
Where Nature opes her spacious book ! 
And when ye turn its amj^le pages 
Read from the folded leaf of ages. 
Wherever thought can have a birth, 
Read from the heavens and the earth, 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 233 

From nature passed, where crumbling graves 

Are silent records of its slaves. 

Expand your thoughts and let them ride 

Beyond old ocean's stormy tide, 

Beyond the heaven's ethereal blue 

Where circling worlds ne'er come to view ; 

Then say shall man humble his pride 

And human reason be denied. 

As if ye were but thoughtless beast 

To drag the j)low for cunning priest ! 

Have mitred heads all wisdom found, 

And are ye but playing the clown ? 

When God gives truth to his creatures, 

Speaks he only through the preachers ? 

Go, ye priests, go teach your schools, 

Frighten the weak, alarm the fools, 

With fiery hells and stinking graves ! 

Go fatten on your cringing slaves ! 

Liberty, Liberty, still has a care, 

And reason hears the human prayer. 

Still hears the wailing and the groan 

When Avretched knaves enslave its own. 

Men and women who should be free, 

Bound to a craft and slavery. 

With neither courage or control 

To break the chains or free the soul. 

Afraid of reason, afraid to think. 

Lest light come in and they should sink, 

They bow around the priestly caves 

And lick the hands that made them slaves. 



234 RUSTIC RHYMES. 



THE DEVIL SET HIS TRAPS ONE DAY. 

The Devil set his traps one day 

To try the human fate, 
And all who came within the way 

Were tempted by the bait ; 

And, strange to say, Avhat curious bait 

He placed within each trap, 
For some would pass in loathing hate 

What others straightway snap ; 

For he trapped lawyers and preachers,- 

And game of many caste ; 
The Devil knows well all creatures, 

In each varying taste. 

The women too all smiling came 

Into the monster's claws. 
For some fashion tempted to shame 

With its little gewgaws. 

Ev'ry one had his tender part 

The fiend could well detect, 
In some 't was weakness of the heart, 

In some of intellect. 

Some were entrapped with diadems, 

And some with plated brass, 
Some only trapped with diamond gems. 

And some with colored glass. 

But money was his powerful bait, 

How the fiend did shake it ! 
Though oft he had to swell its weight 

Ere the great would take it. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 235 

The rich and great the poor deride, 

To see them pennies take, 
But e'eu themselves a-quick decide 

When thousands are at stake. 

Some, who resisted gold and fame. 

By wine were tempted sore. 
And some, who knew no other shame. 

To woman's wiles gave o'er. 

Much it amused his fiendsliip's heart, 

Patiently he waited, 
Some only trapped by cunning art, 

Some caught e'en unbaited. 

Now, as the Devil bagged his game, 

The fiend was heard to say, 
Each man 's his price, and '11 take the same 

If baited the right way. 



OH, THOU ART BEAUTIFUL, MY LOVE! 

Oh! thou art beautiful, my love. 
As the lilies are fair, 
When the dewy sweets. 
From silken leaflets, 
Perfume the bali\iy air. 

Thy eyes are like the radiant stars 
In the argent field above. 

But softer each light, 

Twinkling bright, 
That fills my heart with love. 



236 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Thy hair is like the yellow rays 
From setting sun unrolled, 

Those locks of light 

That drape the night 
And paint the west with gold. 

Thy breasts are like the drifted snow, 
With gentle waves between, 

As soft, as white, 

As pearly quite. 
But not so cold I ween. 

Thy form is like an angel's form, 
Flitting through heavenly air, 
Tho' flesh and blood, 
As pure as good, 
As chaste and ever as fair. 

Gladly I 'd hie with thee away 
To some more genial sky ; 
On beds of roses, 
Where pleasure reposes, 
We would dream of bliss for aye. 



OLD PITMAN'S CHURCH. 

Where Pitman's creek rolls through the wood, 
And Pinch'em's road crosses its flood. 
Within the century past there stood 

Old Pitman's church ; 
Deep in its avenue of graves, 
'Mid woods and cliffs and dingy caves 

On ev'ry perch. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. * 237 

'T was here the pious herds convened. 
From Satan's wrath and fury screened, 
And matrons old and babes unweaned 

Were doubly blessed ; 
For here, heaped in each sacred mound. 
From life's grim cares and woes unbound. 

Their bodies rest. 

As years rolled by in quick'ning flight 
A change came o'er this halloAv'd site, 
And visions strange loomed up at night 

Among its graves ; 
The weary traveler, delayed, 
Saw ghostly forms grope thro' its glade 

Or out its caves. 

One darksome night, wintry and cold, 
A rustic lad strayed by the fold ; 
The church Avas lit, as used of old. 

With sickly glare. 
And all the dead in shrouds profuse 
Were seated in the broken pews 

Or bowed in prayer. 

Within the pulpit and alone. 

Turning the pages one by one 

As he was wont in years now gone 

A text to find, 
The Parson stood in winding sheet. 
His hair as white as snowy sleet 

In winter's time. 

A gloomy form, ghastly in death, 
Long bony hands, unearthly breath. 
His shroud moldy with damp of earth 
And grave decays, 



238 ' RUSTIC RHYMES. 

And all the dead sat grouped 'round 
As listening to his solemn sound 
In other days. 

The Parson prayed and then he preached, 

A weird sound it was, and screeched 

As when the midnight winds have reached 

Their dismal caves, 
Then ev'ry ghost joined in the tones, 
In hollow wails like sobbing groans 

Over their graves. 

The songs were hushed, the service ended. 
Forth the Parson's arms extended, 
AVhile in his voice strangely blended 

Pathos and fright. 
Up rose the denizens of the graves 
With muffled sound as when dark waves 

O'erflood the night. 

" Lord," he said, " we grow weary, 
The grave is dark, its vaults dreary, 
Ne'er a thought or vision cheery 

Within the the tomb. 
Waiting Thy pleasure and command. 
How long, how long until again 

Thou 'It light this gloom ? " 

A noise as when the waters move 
Or black'ning storm rides high above. 
And all was silent in the grove 

And dark its caves, 
The dead, all dressed in their grave shrouds. 
Rustled by like vapory clouds 

Back to their graves. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 239 



THE CLANDESTINE MEETING. 

The night had drawn its vail above 
And bright the moon was shining, 

We met within the cherry grove 
'Mid sweet floAvers entwining, 

Where balmy spring with gentle breeze. 
Where enchanted scenes delight, 

Where music swells from all the trees 
And floats away on the night. 

Softer than the moonlight above 

Kissing the fragrant flowers, 
Two gentle hearts melting with love 

Were dreaming in its bowers; 

How' oft I pressed her to my heart. 
Nestling closely to my breast. 

We swore that we would never part, 
And mutual love confessed. 

The hours passed in fond embraces, 

Joyous hours and bright, 
A thousand vows, a thousand kisses, 

Quick winged the fleeting night. 

But hark ! a sound disturbs our sweet. 
It comes thund'ring on the gale, 

Her dad has found out our retreat, 
His big bull-dog's on the trail. 

'T was a race for life, a wild, wild race, 

Sweet kisses little avail. 
One might flee and angels embrace 

When a bull-dog's on his trail. 



240 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

But to my legs, the best defense 
'Gainst dad's bull or witches — 

But ere I cleared the orchard fence 
He had me by the breeches ; 

Add woe to grief, already sore 
With my last leap in the air, 

A charge of bird-shot sprinkled o'er 
What the dog lately left bare. 

Now all who read this tale of mine, 
Who have clandestines incog.. 

Though sweet the wooing by moonshine. 
Look out for dad and his dog. 



VALEDICTORY TO LOUISVILLE MED- 
ICAL COLLEGE. 

Adieu, my friends, a fond adieu ! 

The fates that break friendship's ties 
Swell from the heart sorrowing tears 

To stream from weeping eyes ; 
There 's not a cord that binds the heart 

But that 's doomed to be broken, 
There 's not a meeting here on earth 

But farewells must be spoken. 

By the noblest science on earth, 
Children of light, true in heart, 

Bound by a friendship paternal," 
E'en we, alas ! too must part ; 

But parting, we '11 pledge each other, 
By the memory of the year, 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 241 

To hold in mind ev'ry brother 
To truth and our science dear. 

As time rolls on men become gods 

In knowledge and in power, 
Chain the elements to control 

And ride the fleeting hour ; 
So, friends, search for the talisman, 

Throughout Nature's dusky haunt. 
That opes the dark house of death 

And bids its powers avaunt ! 

Ye are armed, my friends, to combat 

The powers of sin and woe ; 
Ignorance and superstition 

Are manhood's greatest foe, 
Let science's refulgent rays 

Illume all the dusky caves 
Where mankind are chained in darkness 

Like dead men in their graves. 

Fear not, my friends, the threat'ning cant 

When the wicked craftsmen frown, 
Who among dusky clouds alone 

Seek their power and renown. 
Carry the torch of truth boldly 

In the halls of gloomy night 
Where mortal men in dungeons dark 

Are groping for the light. 

This world is one vast battle-field, 

Strewn with its victims gory, 
Whereon ye must contend for truth 

Tho' others reap all the glory ; 
Ye are the guardians of truth, 

'T is yours to defend the right, 
21 



242 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Let not your arms Aveaken their blows 
When ye should strike with might. 

Should we meet no more fraternally, 

Mid life's passions wild and ruth, 
E'er remember humanity's cry 

And battle stoutly for truth ; 
Whatever is in store for men, 

Let cunning priest call 't treason, 
Nature's God is sacred still 

To ev'ry son of reason. 

Fear not fanaticism's scourge, 

Nor e'er let your courage stay, 
The martyrs of the dusky past 

Are the heroes of to-day ; 
Ev'ry right of conscience and truth 

Has fierce onslaught withstood, 
And Liberty through gory fields 

Been traced in tracks of blood. 

Adieu, my friends, a last adieu ! 

The warmest love of my heart 
Ever swells in kindness for you, 

Regretting that we must part ; 
When on the rough desert of time 

I am faint with weary strife, 
I'll e'er remember our companionship, 

Fair oases in mv life. 



R USTIC RHYMES. 243 

THE DYING INFIDEL. 

He 's dying now \ how dark the shadows dwell 

Upon his brow ! no beacon light, no ray 

Of hope to illume the dusky pall of death, 

Black as night it draws it murky folds round 

His last couch. Life to him was a flickering dream. 

An aimless and ambitionless shadoAV — 

The past a dreary, senseless delusion. 

The present a fleeting dream, the future 

Black with woeful uncertainty ; 

But he's dying now, let cold charity 

Mantle him from fanaticism's gaze. 

Insult not the dead ; fanaticism 's deaf 

To the reasons that shaped his thought 

Or darkened his soul ; his hopes, his fears, his all. 

Lie smoldering in the spark that yet warms 

His weakening heart. Deal gently with his frailties. 

Death, the dusky monster of human woe. 

On black pinions hovers 'mid murky clouds 

Like a shadow o'er him, waiting fiend-like 

To escort his wretched soul through the 

Gloomy corridors of eternity. He 's dying now ; 

The gentle wooings of Revelation, 

The kind admonitions of faith and hope 

Are strangers to him ; all around 

Is as black as midnight's darkest storm. 

Like a sinking ship on a tempestuous sea, 

When the surging waves are black with the 

Spectral clouds of night — engulfed the craft — 

So down into the turbulent waters of human sorrow, 

Driven from rock to rock, from billow to billow. 

By the fierce waves that surge the moral soul. 

Lost in the fog of human reason, he sinks 



244 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

In the grave his aimless ambition digged. 
Oh ! let us not upbraid him as a fiend 
Because he is dying an infidel, 
But o'er his cold, helpless grave strew the flowers 
Of human love and Christian kindness. 
Commending his soul to God, who purposed 
Its being. Was he a fanatic ! What strange dreams 
Infatuated his wild, weird fancies 
And stalked like ghost through his frenzied slumber 
Is not for us to know or even to surmise. 
Was he a kind husband, a loving father, 
A warm friend? Had he never a noble emotion 
That might be told in extenuation 
Of the most awful crime of unbelief? 
Is it retribution ! Are they demons 
That glare wildly upon his dying couch 
And craze his soul with shadowy presence ? 
Is it remorse that torments his soul 
And makes his dying so terrible ? Why does 
He foam in the death struggle like a madman 
Tearing the gratings of his cell to escape ? 
Is his soul in anguish wrestling to free 
Itself from the wild fiends that torture it. 
Or is 't all but a strange human fancy, 
But a weird vision of our own 
Imagining? Is he really sufiering; 
Are we not drawing upon our fancies 
For shrouds to drape the enemies of our faith ? 
Realize the dying moral anguish 
In the deep and unconscious sleep of death ! 
Is it not nature convulsed yet thoughtful, 
Under a kind anesthesia, tearing the 
Dreamless soul from its senseless body, 
- Where life, ever jealous of its tenure. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 245 

Struggles e'en in the very jaws of death 

To reclaim its own ? How oft I have marked 

The gesticulations of the dying 

As deepens the coma that slumbers into death, 

The wild-glaring expression of anguish, 

The gentle smile of tenderest affection. 

The fierce contortions of the body, 

The low and muttering delirium. 

Sometimes solemn, sometimes farcical. 

The delusions of sight, the grasping out 

At invisible specters in the air ! 

All construed by the friends of the dying. 

Who 've lingered to catch the last gurgling groan 

Frothed through the flaccid lips of death 

In ominous rattle, as best might suit 

Their anticipations of the finale : 

Sweet heavenly visions, dire strains of hell. 

Woven by a thousand cunning creeds 

To suit their own respective hopes and fears 

And forever damn and blacken their enemies. 



THE RACE FOR WEALTH. 

The race for wealth is madd'ning fast, 

In ev'ry land appears 
The Shylocks of human blood 

Feasting on human tears ; 

The rich are prdiid, the poor oppressed, 

And money is our king. 
E'en Liberty bows with drooping head 

Before its sordid ring ; 



246 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Millionaires, princes, railroad lords, 
Bond-holders puffed with bloat. 

Hold the reins of state and commeuce, 
Hold Congress and its vote ; 

Only the poor, the wretched poor. 

Who live by humble toils. 
Are still oppressed by state and church, 

Are still used for the spoils. 

Oh ! to be poor, and have it said 

'Tis meanness of the blood. 
Who dress in silks and satins rare 

Are of a nobler brood. 

'Tis wealth, 'tis wealth in madd'ning craze. 

Society has to blame. 
Ferments all wars, plots all crimes, 

Fills earth with woe and shame. 

For gold men swim thro' lake of blood 

And die on battle field, 
Or ironclads plow ev'ry sea, 

Bristling with murd'rous steel. 

This craze for wealth, this selfish strife, 

Leads through ev'ry nation, 
Even Christians call it progress 

And civilization. 



A VISION. 



The day had hushed its busy sound, 
The night had drawn its curtains round. 
Beside Buckhorn I sat me down 

To muse alone. 
And in the darkness all profound 

I heard a groan. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 247 

The shades of night then piercing through, 
The strangest form came to my view, 
Of its cloven feet, its barbed tail, 

I scarce can tell, 
Its curious horns, its coat of mail. 

And sulphur smell. 

As I yet gazed in horrid fright, 

I had almost taken to flight, 

When said the specter, " I'm the Devil ; 

No harm is meant ; 
I would not use friends uncivil, 

Now be content." 

Still, as I almost quaked for fear. 

In confidence Satan drew near; 

So bland his smiles, I thought no ill 

Could e'er be meant, 
And then he praised old Campbellsville 

To some extent. 

Softly he spoke : " Thou mayst not know it. 
My secret do thou not blow it, 
To me is given the reins of state, 

A task I love, 
To shape the lives of all I love 

On earth above ; 

' But strange rumors have come below. 
The truth of which I want to know. 
My imps have all taken to flight ; 

And well they should, 
If this be trutli that 's come to light 

'Bout J 



" Despite of hell and all my hate, 
J 's determined to be great 



248 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

As pots with brass and mules with cheek 

Were made or born, 
All glory hangs o'er Brushy Creek, 

Famed Rubicon." 

Said I, " My friend, why such a fright? 
Give J. . a lift, he'll treat thee right." 
Quoth he, " What needs this man of lift, 

Champion brave, 
Whose politic fame already 's reft 

All hell conclave ? 

"Like the rolling of an earthquake. 
When dusky columns of night break. 
Subjects infernal howl and shake 

In dread and awe, 
As all the nation 's rushed to make 

J. . . . Governor ! 

"In hell I heard of his great fame, 
And straight I rose from sulphur and flame 
This Csesar's ambition to cool. 

Lest he, o'ergrown. 
And not content with earthly rule, 

Attack my throne. 

"Many the restless hours I spent, 
But I 've seen J. . . . and am content ; 
If guts were brains, and brass was power 

To overwhelm, 
I 'd abnegate this very hour 

My infernal realm." 

What 's in Fate's store may not be told, 

Noi- how much gas some men can hold, 

Puffed like bladders with wind and roar 

And pride disgusting. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 249 

But if J. . . . swells a little more 

There '11 be some bu'sting. 

" But," quoth the Devil, "I must be going ; 
This little conference be not blowing, 
Lest wicked malice should enjoy 

My raid to-night ; 
Next time I come for J. . . ., boy, 

'T won't be from fright." 

And then he raised him on his shanks 
And cut a jig in fiendish pranks, 
And last he said, with cunning smile 

Softening its bane, 
"I'll see you, friend, some other while — 

We '11 meet again." 



HE WANTS TO BE GOVERNOR. 

Our J , of Brushy Creek, 

Although a little raw. 
Has all the brass and all the cheek 

To make a Governor. 
Good luck 's better 'n silver or gold. 

Greatness a child of Fate, 
One ass counseled a prophet of old, 

Another may counsel the State ; 
When the lightnings smite those who 'd rule, 

Its reddest bolts are pliant. 
Just as likely to strike a mule 

As 't is to strike a giant. 
Take courage, J. . . ., from what I 've said, 

And trust to luck for aye, 
The asses survive tho' the prophets 're dead. 

And the fools will never die. 
22 



250 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

THE STOLEN KISS. 

I stole a kiss from ray sweetheart one day, 
As we walked along the lane, 

She asked me if, like a cowardly thief, 
I 'd ne'er return it again. 

Only a criminal caught in the act, 
Wliere justice commands so bold, 

I made haste to amend the wrong I 'd done. 
And paid it all back tenfold. 

But somehow I thought so terrible crime 
XJnrevenged should never go, 

At least some penance I thought to exact. 
And gave her a hundred more. 

I told her if she 'd forgive me this time 

I 'd ne'er again act amiss ; 
She forgave as only a woman can. 

And we sealed it with a kiss. 



THE FATHER IS GROWING FEEBLER. 

The father is growing feebler. 

The mother 's getting gray, 
With tottering steps and infirm 

They tread life's downward way ; 
One foot upon the slippery sod 

And one within the grave, 
They are not what they used to be 

When they were young and brave. 

Their minds are weak'ning like their limbs, 
And tott'ring down the hill. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 251 

But though they Ve grown old and feeble, 

We '11 ever love them still ; 
The mother's becoming childish, 

But she shall bear no blame. 
Though she should tread upon our toes, 

We 've tread on hers the same. 

The endearing joys of childhood 

Are still to mem'ry sweet. 
As kindly our parents watched us. 

Our little tott'ring feet. 
And when our limbs were so feeble 

We scarce could walk alone 
They led us gently by the hand 

Till we were older grown ; 

So now they may lean upon us. 

As they 've been parents true. 
As they have helped our tender years 

We '11 give them honor due ; 
And down the steeper plane of life. 

As near the other shore, 
Our stronger limbs will bear them up, 

God pass them gently o'er. 

When we too shall be older grown 

And totter on life's brink. 
May our children buoy us up 

Lest we untimely sink ; 
Kindly remember the children, 

Nor is our kindness vain. 
When w^e are old and enfeebled 

They '11 remember us again. 



252 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

AND YOU WOULD ASK, MY DEAREST 
FRIEND. 

And you would ask, my dearest friend, 

With feelings all sedate, 
What I think of life's final end 

And of our future state ? 

And yet you know it is the rule. 

In every land agreed, 
To call him knave, or at least fool, 

Who dares dispute the creed. 

The jaundiced man sees thro' his bile 

Only yellow minions. 
So hard for men to reconcile 

Diff'rence of opinions. 

And since, my friend, you so desire 

To hear my humble view, 
All hopes and fears mankind inspire, 

Whether they 're false or true : 

We are frail creatures of the sods. 

And so I'd have us taken. 
Of all the creeds and all the gods. 

Some surely are mistaken ; 

And yet one hope to mortals given 

Let 's leave the human race. 
May all mankind get to heaven, 

If there be such a place ; 

But as to hell's dark, gloomy goal, 

Be't never God's disgrace, 
Digged by priest to extort toll 

Off of the human race. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 253 

To know a thing by faith's record 

Will feed the simple mind, 
But stronger minds need stronger food, 

And faith you know is blind. 

To sum up all that can be said. 

We know not Avhence it came, 
And when Ave look beyond the dead 

'T is darkness all the same ; 

Although the hopes of mortal men 

Can surely nothing prove. 
Whatever be man's final end 

We hope for peace and love ; 

At least we would not fright man's hope 

With 'maginary fears, 
If heaven's gate we may not ope, 

We 'd dry all human tears. 



THE CULPRIT. 

Why from this lonesome cell, 
Like a Devil incarnate, 
Look I thro' this iron grate 

As from the jaws of hell ? 

Am I human beast or fiend, 
That from this damp gloom 
As from a living tomb 

I gaze these bars between ? 

What crime 'gainst' human right. 
That dark dungeons close 



254 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Their massive iron doors " 
In perpetual night ? 

Ye who walk the streets, brave 
In liberty's broad ways, 
Count not the weary days 

Dragging me to the grave ; 

Mark the mischief that 's done 
In Justice's name each day. 
Human beings waste 'way. 

Shut out from air and sun ; 

Then your proud hearts would melt, 
E'en if they were of stone, 
To hear each piteous groan 

And feel what we have felt. 

Dark dungeons fettering the soul 
And binding men enslaved. 
Knelled, coffined, and graved, 

Dragging wearily to their goal. 

Human torture will be brief; 
Death, no better friend or truer. 
When hearts can no more endure. 

Comes hap'ly to man's relief. 



'TIS A GLORIOUS PRIVILEGE, MY 
FRIEND. 

'T is a glorious privilege, my friend, 
That virtuous minds the right defend. 
When to a heart by guile betrayed. 
Revenge is sweet e'en to a maid ; 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 255 

A dreary life, weary and forlorn, 
With never a rose except the thorn, 
With nothing left that it might trace 
For womanhood except disgrace. 

Why should I hide my face in shame, 
When he, who stole my virtuous name 
With honeyed words of vile deceit, 
Unbranded walks through ev'ry street ? 
Oh ! must I seek a cloistered den, 
Secluded from the gaze of men, 
From society's smile forever barred. 
He proud with conscience still unscarred ? 

The tend'rest heart, estranged by guile, 

Is deceived by the villain's smile. 

So well the villain plays his part, 

So confiding a woman's heart ; 

She scorns to impute a motive small 

In him to whom she trusts her all, 

Till she wakes from her dreams dismayed 

To find her heart and soul betrayed. 

Think ye not, when love 's been slighted. 
Vengeance can sleep unrequited ! 
Where disgrace is added to slight. 
Hatred adds to vengeance might ; 
Honeyed words, now bitter as gall. 
Sting the heart they did enthrall. 
And round it draw in circling fire 
The terrors of revengeful ire. 

Yes, I will haunt him day and night. 
No night too dark, no day too bright, 
I '11 dog his steps from street to street, 
I '11 hunt him down for vengeance sweet ; 



256 R USTIC RHYMES. 

No more shall peace e'er be his boast, 
He's my murderer, I'm his ghost, 
I '11 shadow him like a spirit lost, 
He yet shall learn of virtue's cost ; 

Nor think, my friends, that with this life 
Shall end the horrors of our strife, 
His dying couch I '11 overwhelm, 
Follow his manes to darker realm; 
In the land of shades, dead man's clime, 
I'll hunt his spirit with its crime, 
Along the shadowy coasts of hell 
Sweet vengeance '11 follow it still. 

Though the world scorns a woman's bane. 
It feasts the author of her shame. 
While she must die to hide her face, 
He 's left to boast of his disgrace ; 
The voice that dooms her folly blind 
But welcomes him to other crime. 
She is the wench, hers is the woe, 
He is still society's beau. 

O, women with confiding heart. 
Ye who have never felt its smart, 
Ye who have found your lovers true 
And trusted them in honor due, 
Pity ye not my sorrowing groan ? 
E'en my fate might have been your own, 
Had they on whom your love was thrust 
Proven recreant to the trust. 4 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 257 

THERE IS A SLEEP, A LONG, LONG 
SLEEP. 

There is a sleep, a long, long sleep, 

When to the grave we take us, 
No more to tell its mystic dreams 

Shall mortal mau awake us ; 

For over the dreams of that couch 
Death hangs its drap'ry of night, 

A dusky cloud all black'ning dire 
Before the human sight. 

Dark are the gloomy halls of night 

Wherein this couch is spread, 
The specters of apother sphere 

Guard round its sleeping dead ; 

Profound the slumber that they sleep. 

Unknown their names or day, 
Eternity 's silent witnesses 

Still sleeping on for aye. 



ONE WORLD AT A TIME. 

One world at a time 's enough of strife, 

Where passion overwhelms, 
Virtue 's a child of real life 

And not of shadowy realms ; 
They may howl who are wont to claim 

Virtue's an heir of faith. 
Credulity the magic sesame 

That opes the gates of death. 



258 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Live for the life open to view, 

The wrongs of the weak redress, 
To country and to humanity true — 

Angels are not in distress ; 
They may rant who speak of a birth 

Beyond the cloudy sky, 
Heaven 'd bloom with flowers on earth 

If oppression's tears were dry. 

Dream not visions of golden strand 

Where white-robed angels tread, 
Death hangs its shroud o'er hopes of man. 

The poor are begging bread ; 
■ Awake, ye dreamers, awake, awake ! 

Who sleep among life's graves. 
Let clouds drift on and wild winds break, 

Earth has work for its slaves. 

Why craze the soul with vajDory fears. 

The heart with sad misgiving, 
Man drifts on an ocean of tears 

'Mid wrecks of the living ; 
Go feed the poor, the sick attend. 

Go succor human needs, 
The God Almighty needs no friend. 

Humanity only bleeds. 



THE AMERICAN SLAVE. 

Ye have been slaves, too true indeed. 
Mere bondsmen, an ignoble breed. 
E'en 's the dull ass that plows the corn. 
But to no higher honors born. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 259 

And this too where Liberty's face 

Blushes not at its own disgrace ; 

Yet ye 're human and have a soul 

That will survive when earth is old, 

When mountain from mountain 's riven 

By dissolving blasts of heaven. 

Oh ! think ye that there are no tears 

Falling from Mercy on our cares ? 

Oh! think ye not the wretched slave, 

Bound by tyrants on Freedom's grave. 

Has ne'er a groan to pierce the skies 

Or gush the tears in Mercy's eyes ? 

The time will come, thro' nature wide 

No trace is left of human pride, 

Shorn of its glory, in decay 

Human grandeur passes away ! 

Who then can boast of wealth or birth — 

The true metewand is moral worth ; 

Color will fade like dusky night 

Before the day's advancing light. 

But tf the heart in ev'ry grace 

Is to be shown within the face, 

What strange contrasts will greet the sight ! 

Some fair as morn, some black as night, 

And here and there a deeper stain 

The blackest night would pale with shame. 



APOSTROPHE TO DEATH. 

Cold and dark is thy form, O Death ! 
And icy is thy vapory breath, 
Black are the dismal chambers 
Wherein thy unwilling slaves are chained, 



260 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

What eye e'er pierced thy shadowy spheres 

Or ear heard whisperings from thy realms ? 

As ghostly as the night thy visions, 

As hollow as the midnight voices 

Thy echoes, as silent as eternal 

Are all thy legions, O Death ! 

Though one by one our friends and loved ones 

Are wrapt in thine iron embrace, 

Thy arms unrelenting as thy silence. 

And thy embrace as cold as eternal. 



POETRY. 



What is Poetry but polished thoughts 

In euphonic language dressed. 
Striking our ears in mellow notes 

With concurrent ideas expressed ; 
Hearts and souls that think and feel, 

'Tis the language of feeling. 
It lights the mind with sunbeams 

Where shadows were concealing 
Passions that long'd to break the spell 
That chain'd them in life's gloomy cell. 

Is this world all dark and friendless? 

Hope environs its despair ; 
Is there a storm on life's horizon 

Lurid with its lightning glare, 
Where crushing thunders peal in tones 

Like the tolling of a knell ? 
Bright sunbeams hide behind each cloud, 

Smiling 'bove the surging swell. 
Though discord 'larms the fright'ned ear, 
Hope stays its grief and stills its fear. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 261 

Is life's fancy sei^eue and sweet, 

Hope undim'd by Sorrow's tear, 
With radiant sun-refulgent sphere 

Warming, bright'ning ev'ry care? 
Birds sing sweet on every bower, 

Sunbeams gild the passing hour, 
Sweetest perfume from scented flower 

Lends charm to nature's power, 
Gladdening the heart with hopes given 
Like sweetest visions of heaven. 

Such is Poesy, music of Nature, 
* Thrilled on the chords of the heart, 
'Mid the lights and shadows of life 

Where mankind enacts his part ; 
Life's bright Avith joy, or dark with woe. 

As the heart 's bright or dark within, 
As the soul 's buoyed up with hope 

Or blackened with fear and sin, 
The outward life in its broad design 
Portrays the inward soul and mind. 



DOUBTS. 



The darkest page in human sorrow, 

The saddest tale of human woes. 
Gloomy nights of uncertain morrow. 

Shadowy, vague and mystic foes. 
Is it well for those who dream 

That far beyond the murky night 
They can catch a hallowed gleam 

From a land of radiance bright ? 



262 RUSTIC RHVMES. 

Faith warms up the chilly waters 

And calms life's ever-raging groan, 
For with the peace such hope flatters 

We launch into the great unknown ; 
As the dark clouds gather round us, 

And death's cold waters roll beneath. 
Reason and learning confound us. 

No light but the dim light of faith. 

If the grave 's Faith's funeral knell, 

Vapory as the fleeting breath, 
Still there 's magic in its spell 

To soothe the wild terrors of death, 
Though from the land of gloomy shade 

No wand'ring voice has e'er returned. 
And gloomy doubt in night dismayed 

Weeps o'er the prospects of its morn. 

But oh! what a wild, wretched thought, 

The saddest thought of all our dreams. 
That we are here only to rot. 

Our life 's but the shadow it seems ! 
Hope, brightest boon to man given. 

The golden link in life's frail chain. 
Tethers the dull soul to heaven, 

A panacea for ev'ry bane. 



THE SUICIDE'S SOLILOQUY. 

Tired of life, tired of life, 

Without one ray of light, 
A never-ceasing struggling strife 

From morn till weary night. 
Oh ! what is death that I should fear 
His vap'ry breath or scalding tear, 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 263 

Shall I forego every strife 

Aud live to woe for sake of life ? 

Dark and rayless the dusky sky 

That clouds my moral sun, 
'T is not madness that seeks to die, 

'T is sweet oblivion ; 
If torturing fate prolong my doom. 
Shall I wait for it to come. 
Or supplement with the knife 
The discontent of weary life ? 

What charm has this earth to bind me 

Till woes their plans mature. 
Madden, torture, and confine me 

Long 's nature will endure ? 
Nature is slow, torture 's severe, 
I pray to go but still I 'm here, 
Misery wrecked 'mid surging strife, 
With no respect for soul or life. 

They tell me in the dread beyond 

I '11 find a darker life. 
That sorrow knows no deeper wound 

Than its infernal strife ; 
Ye wretched shades avaunt, depart. 
Ye have dismayed my trembling heart ; 
The blow 's given, and who can tell 
Is it heaven or is it hell ? 

This draught 's sweet Oblivion's steep, 

I know 'tis death to sip. 
He who would sleep the long, long sleep, 

May press it to his lip ; 
Who would not die ? Terrors in wrath 
Avenging lie around my path. 
O sweet repose, I welcome thee ! 
From life's grim foes at least I'm free. 



264 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

A FRAGMENT. 

What can be said to soothe a mother's pain, 

What sophistry ease her infernal bane, 

When, like a dagger rusting in her heart, 

A mad fiend tears the aching Avound apart. 

When her unwedded child with down-cast face 

Is forced at last to reveal her disgrace, 

Bring forth a babe, where slanderous tongues are rife, 

A young mother before she is a wife ? 

Heaven, methinkst thou hast a soothing tear 

To weep over a child's untimely bier. 

But no tear can erase so foul a stain 

Nor balm distill to soothe a mother's pain ; 

Society, 't is by thy artificial blame 

Woman alone must bear the lash of shame. 

Heaven, methinkst, still loves the ruined maid 

As well as him by whom she is betrayed. 

But, fond mother, this can never still thy grief, 

Retribution brings the heart no relief; 

Far better death, O child of foul embrace, 

Than hope smothered in eternal disgrace ! 



THE DYING MOSLEM. 

They tell me that I 'm dying, 
That I'm passing fast away. 

The night of death is creeping 
O'er scenes of time and day, 

And my soul must take its flight 
In the great eternity. 

How softly fall the shadows 
As they gather round my bed, 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 265 

The air is filled Avith music, 

Good genii lightly tread, 
If this indeed be dying, 

Sweet the chambers of the dead. 

Do not weep for me, loved ones. 
Do not let your hearts grieve you. 

Though 't is sorrow to my soul 
Thus sadly to bereave you, 

To me the parting 's Paradise, 
And death only to leave you. 

Fi'om celestial shores streaming 

Thro' the dusky vail of night. 
Darker grows the gloom of death, 

Clearer the heavens bright. 
The angels are waiting for me. 

Hovering on wings of light. 

Oh ! where is the grim Eblis, 

Who so oft 'larms the dying? 
Keen pains of dissolution 

Through ev'ry nerve are flying. 
But death 's no fear for the soul 

On hope and faith relying. 

Though my ears are growing dull 

And my eyes are getting dim, 
I can catch from other spheres 

The angels' joyous hymn. 
Its echoes of soft music 

'Tire my soul with vim. 

Why talk to me of living. 
As if death had alarms ! 
Why talk to me of dying, 
• As if life still had charms ! 

23 



266 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Oh ! talk to me of Paradise, 
Reposing in angel arms ! 

Come place thy hand on my brow, 
The death-damp 's gathering there, 

Come kneel close beside my bed, 
Together we '11 offer prayer 

That we yet may meet again, 
And no more parting there. 

Bury me quietly away. 

Free from slander's wicked shaft, 

There let impious men mock me. 
Skeptics and atheists laugh ; 

Resting sweetly in Islam, 
There 's no nobler epitaph. 

O, ye men who boast learning 

Where science binds its fair wreath, 

Why attempt to break the charm. 
The Koran's bright hope and faith ? 

Why dash the sweet cup of life 
From the trembling lips of death ? 



EPITAPH ON A DOCTOR. 

Here he lies, shorn of his breath 
By the ruthless hand of Death ; 
How strange 't is that thus he ends, 
Since he and Death were such friends ! 
Who hence will expect protection 
From professional connection ? 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 267 

EPITAPH ON A LAWYER. 

Here he lies, a lawyer still, 

Demurring for sake of cavil. 
He mortgaged his soul for gain, 

Let him enjoin the devil ; 
Perhaps limitation '11 save him 

Like poor insolvent paupers ; 
If not, he yet may appeal 

To writ of habeas corpus. 
Or file bills of exceptions, 

Rejoinder or cross-petition. 
Thus still to delay action 

And defraud perdition. 



EPITAPH ON A SOUR SAINT. 

Here lies a man whose sour face 
Was his only stock in grace ; 
No other excellence given, 
He frowned himself into heaven. 



RECONCILIATION. 

Let us speak no more of sections 
That lead us to bitter strife. 

But renew the love again 
That bound our earlier life ; 

As we are a union of States, 
Let us bind together in heart. 



268 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

And forever heal the wounds 
Our passions tore apart. 

No North, South, East, nor West 

For jealous malice to roam, 
But a nation of brothers 

In Freedom's proudest home ; 
Let us forget the bloody strife 

As we 've buried away its braves, 
May we ne'er tear their wounds 

Nor open their graves. 

When we teach our children 

Our country's common fates, 
May we ever speak softly 

Of the war between the States ; 
Tho' the battle joined fiercely 

And the friends of thousands bled, 
Let us bury all the past 

In the grave with its dead. 

As to the wounds of foes. 

They are made with poisoned steel, 
They are like running sores. 

They may scab but never heal ; 
Then in forbearance be gentle, 

And this maxim ever heed, 
E'en the wounds of brothers 

May open find may bleed. 

Tho' many a widowed heart 
Has sorrowed out its pain, 

Whose husband and child 

Have been mingled with the slain, 

From New England's frozen shore 
To Florida's coral reef 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 269 

Homes have been made desolate 
And hearts filled with grief. 

There are some pangs in memory 

That linger with us yet, 
And tho' we have forgiven all 

We never may forget ; 
Let our lips be sealed in silence, 

Nor to posterity restore them, 
But bear our secrets to the grave 

That they may never know them. 

Then dwell no more on passions 

That filled the land with mourning, 
But look to the future unborn 

For its brighter dawning ; 
May God bless our country, 

Shield it from evil fates, 
And give us a union of hearts 

In this union of States. 



THE OLD MAIDS' JOLLY CLUB. 

BY MARY ANN. 

Around their snufif they sit and chat, 

Now talk of this, and then of that ; 

Like lawyers astute great questions handle, 

Either in fashion or in scandal, 

Suchtopics great they do sledge on 

As society, state, and religion. 

With huge mashed swabs and gobs of spit. 

Tobacco juice and vulgar wit, 

Each knowing one but nods and winks, 

And straight she speaks just that she thinks. 



270 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

They talk of minds that are distracted, 
Of meetings soon to be protracted, 
Of those who ought to be converted, 
Of wives and children long deserted, 
Of crusades on the liquor shops. 
Of failures in the baby crops, 
All society and its construction. 
The last wedding and seduction. 
• They tell of girls, with pretty faces. 
Yielding to wealth their natural graces ; 
How priests, tempt by wicked beauty. 
Stray from the narrow path of duty, 
How the old toper paints his nose. 
How blooming widows sigh for beaux. 
While some old maids, to damn the truth. 
Curl and dye to resemble youth ; 
How one who oft has gi'n the mitten 
Finds beaux no longer to be smitten, 
And one who flaunts about so proud 
Nor deigns to smile on common crowd. 
Dresses in silks and diamonds replete — 
Her great grandsire cleaned the street. 
They talk of some who o'er wash-tub 
Strain their backs to scour and scrub, 
Still priding on a family fame, 
Boasting the heritage of name, 
As if mere blood could make a race 
Or save 't from poverty's disgrace, 
'Tis whispered, " Rosy, the high-fly gal. 
Has gone for repair to the hospital ; 
Thus folly oft' must fee the doctor 
That brooks neither advice nor proctor. 
She played long, played well her game. 
But woe 's hers who 's caught in shame, 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 271 

E'en though she should trust the preacher, 
Human faith 's an onerous feature ; 
A wicked smile 's a tempting bait, 
She repents in vain who repents too late." 
'T is thus the gossip floats around, 
Each curious soul drinks in the sound, 
As convivial lads in drunken roar. 
Who drink and pass the cup for more. 



REPLY TO MARY ANN. 

BY AN OLD MALD. 

Ah, Mary Ann, you are a case! 
Think you to hide so fair a face. 
And 'neath your feminine nom de plume 
In male attire to yield the broom V 
Should the jackass to sing essay. 
Think you the birds 'd mistake the bray ? 
Did e'er yet the choristers hail 
A cackling goose for a nightingale? 
Ah, Mary Ann, too thin, too thin. 
There's too much beard upon your chin, 
Too much mustache for Mary Ann, 
Yet scarce enough to make a man. 
Your feet too big, too frail your shanks. 
To play on old maids your boyish pranks. 
As you 'd laugh till your side stitches 
To see a woman dressed in breeches. 
With a spurred heel and a jockey hat. 
Smoking a pipe like a regular flat. 
Loafing around all the summer 
And tipping the glass with ev'ry bummer. 



272 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Then why not smile at an old he-goat 

Flouncing around in a petticoat, 

Stuffed up with gas and airs uncommon, 

To have the world think he 's a woman ? 

Mary Ann, do not think uncivil. 

Some respect's due e'en to the Devil, 

But if you 'd be poet or poetess, 

Sing of the hoppers that hop in the grass, ' 

The katydids and straddle bugs, 

Of pills, of potions, of jars or jugs, 

But beware when you attempt to rub 

Your scabby back 'gainst the Old Maids' Club. 

If perchance you 're matrimonially inclined. 

Dress like a man, come speak your mind, 

But love '11 never smile at slander 

Long 's there 's a goose to every gander. 

If fool man would but stop his teasing. 

Few maids would e'er repine for squeezing. 

And such as died thus celibate, 

Never expire cursing their fate. 



MARY ANN'S REJOINDE-R. 

My dear old maid, so amply fit 
Are all thy lines as holy writ. 
It seems as if some airy sprite 
Had whispered words for you to write ; 
And e'en now thy chastening dart 
Quivers deep in a lover's heart, 
Who cares neither for crooks nor age. 
But loves the wrinkles of the sage. 
The simple boast their soft blue eyes 
And azured cheeks like summer skies, 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 273 

Mere transient glow of sunny hours 
Lending gloss to withering flowers ; 
Our sage wisdom is forced to smile, 
Such fleeting shadows o'er time's dial — 
Let youthful vanity learn its cost, 
Its lilies, nipped by early frost, 
Droop their heads and die repining 
O'er dark hours that once were shining ; 
But you and I, my sweet old maid. 
Long from such frivolity 've strayed, 
We 'te no more tempt' by gaudy youth 
From this vain world to hide the truth. 
We'll quit our paint and cotton breast 
And grow old in mutual cursedness. 
False hair, false calves, and e'en the " bustle" 
We '11 throw from ofi" each limb and muscle, 
With striped hose and high-heeled shoes 
No more our aching cox-ns abuse, 
Nor ribs tight round our livers bind 
To improve on nature's design, 
With laced corsets or other toys 
Pressing abdominal avoirdupois ; 
We '11 throw aside cosmetic graces. 
We'll show the Avorld our real faces, 
Nor fill wrinkles with dirty mushes, 
Nor paint 'em up to look like blushes ; 
We '11 lay aside our porcelain teeth. 
For snags of nature's own bequeath, 
Take oft' our rings of plated brass 
And little gewgaws of colored glass. 
Lay them with our hopes and fears 
On the grave of younger years. 
And, kneeling by departed youth, 
If 't break our hearts, confess the truth 
24 



274 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Engraven on nature's withered pages ; 
We '11 lie no more about our ages, 
Erase records from family Bible, 
Nor 'cuse its dates of wicked libel. 



THE OLD MAIDS' SONG. 

We dear old maids sit in the shades, 

For lovers still we tarry, 
Few are so old, with hearts so cold, 

That they despair to marry ; 
Long shanks and lean, crusty and mean, 

Are bachelors full many, 
We '11 find a mate if we but wait. 

There 's surplus not any. 

With many pranks we hide our shanks. 

As daily they grow thinner, 
With plaster still the wrinkles fill 

To please each crusty sinner ; 
Tho' still by fate we 're doomed to wait, 

Our hopes will ne'er miscarry, 
Some wrinkled ' ' cus " as old as us 

Perchance '11 want to marry. 

We 've still a tongue as good as young, 

Tho' long our cheeks 've faded, 
Woman's weapon to depend upon 

As strong as when God made it ; 
We '11 ne'er declare for matches rare, 

Nor will we choice be. 
But we '11 take most any drake 

Who quacks to matrimony. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 275 

True, some old fool may break the rule, 

Marry a girl in her teen. 
Or some widow get the bidder. 

And surely he 's as green ; 
But well you know we 're due a beau, 

And for that beau we 're prating, 
And still we '11 try ; if we should die, 

We can but die a-waiting. 



EPITAPH ON A PET SQUIRREL. 

Here lies poor Bun, free from toil and fun. 

Peace to his moldering sand, 
He 's made of life's sad wicked strife 

As much as many a man ; 
When the tears of a hundred years 

Have flooded sorrow's rife. 
Few moldering bones in the graveyard strowu 

Will be better known in life ; 
Such is fame, sad flickermg flame 

Burning o'er ambitions rotten, 
Time's circling flight closes in night, 

And all are soon forgotten. 



THE HEIRESS. 

I 've a few thousand dollars. 
And nearly as many beaux. 

Sometimes I think 's my money. 
Sometimes my pretty nose ; 

They all say I 'm a darling, 
A queenly beauty at any rate, 



276 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

But then the boys will flatter 
The girls of great estate. 

There 's Jane, the bonanza heiress, 

The diff'rence makes me smile, 
As homely as blue mud she, 

Till her father struck " ile ; " 
Then the freckles faded fast. 

Beauty did each blemish rout. 
But never till she was rich 

Could a lover find it out. 

Then there 's Kate, once very rich. 

Beauty traced in ev'ry line. 
Many a pimp bowed at her feet 

At the bidding of her mind ; 
But " dad's ile" well ran dry, 

Stocks decreased, the banks broke, 
And then her mercenary beaux 

Said it was all a joke. 

Ah ladies, witb great fortunes 

And many beaux, beware ! 
'T is gold and not your 2)rincely selves, 

Nor yet your raven hair ; 
Many a mercenary flatterer. 

With heart as cold as stone, 
Will take you for your fortunes. 

Who 'd scorn your hands alone. 

Pure love is unostentatious. 
Free from affectation's guile. 

Where two hearts beat as one 
And smile responds to smile ; 

In happy congeniality wed, 

Sweet contentment rules supreme — 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 277 

Wealth must come of honest toil 
And not from Cupid's dream. 

Would you stoop so low for gain, 

When the night is dark and cold, 
Steal into their sleeping chambers 

And murder men for gold ? 
By the same pride of soul 

Restrain your greed for pelf, 
Nor smother an innocent heart 

To squander its wealth. 



IF NOBODY CALLS YOU A RASCAL. 

If nobody calls you a rascal, 

If nobody calls you a thief, 
You 've cut a small figure in life, 

Your glory will be brief. 
The chances are the poor-house 

Will come to your relief; 

If nobody calls you a scoundrel, 
If nobody impeaches your truth. 

You may have plowed potatoes 
Without competition forsooth, 

Aged you 're a worthless crone. 
And an imbecile in youth. 

Never was there a profession. 
Nor yet a business so sedate, 

From clergyman to the bootblack, 
Without the rivalry and hate 

To which ungenerous competitions 
In vile vituperations degenerate ; 



278 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Never was glory so transcendent, 
Nor character so free from stain, 

That some would not dare mock 
The eminence they could not attain. 

And whom they could not emulate 
Would slander all the same. 

But dare, friends, to do the right, 
Slanderous opinions none the less, 

There 's an iron will enemies respect 
And heaven will surely bless, 

There's nothing in human worth 
Except 't is measured by success. 



PATRICK HENRY'S ADDRESS. 

Are we freemen or are we slaves, 
Do we shudder o'er our graves. 
Have we the heart that braves 
Death serenely? 

Has life for us such mellow strains 
It can soften the tyrant's chains, 
It can soothe the infernal banes 
Of monarchy ? 

I know not what others may cherish, 
But as for me, survive or perish, 
Sink or swim, my heart's fond wish, 
Death or liberty. 

Why talk of peace ? there is no peace 
Submitting to fouler disgrace, 
The chains of tyrants never ease 
Them Avillingly. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 279 

Already war sounds it's discord, 
Thunders at Lexington and Concord, 
And gory streams a crimson flood 
From liberty. 

Why stand we idle, must we yield ? 
Our bravest men are in the field, 
Disgrace or liberty dyes the steel 
Of victory. 

Ye who would be England's slaves, 
To your homes as to your graves, 
Ye sons of liberty, Freedom's braves, 
AU rally ! 

Strike for your rights ; may God inspire 
Every heart with a noble desire ; 
On land, on sea, thro' blood or fire, 
Strike bravely ! 



DECEIT. 



Who meets you with a fawning grace. 
Who greets you with a smiling face, 
Who talks to you of others' disgrace, 

Take care ! 
Many a smile so soft and sweet 
Is but a cloak for vile deceit — 

Beware ! 

Many a suave and cunning device 
Is fostered by a friendship nice, 
Each deceitful villain has his price- 
Take care ! 



280 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

The evil genii never sleep, 
So your jealous vigils keep — 
Beware ! 

Many to your face '11 defend you 
Who behind your backs rend you ; 
Friends they are only to spend you — 

Take care! 
Praise to-day, to-morrow abuse you, 
Friends indeed while they may use you — 

Beware ! 

The cur licks with menial fawning. 
He '11 bite you ere another morning, 
His mouth is but a hell yawning — 

Take care ! 
There 's no danger that 's more complete 
Than snares hidden beneath deceit — 

Beware ! 

A wretch of evil inclination 
Wooes with flattering insinuation. 
He courts you for a foul relation — 

Take care ! 
Be on your guard whene'er he pass, 
Sure he 's a viper in the grass — 

Beware ! 



MY MOTHER-IN-LAW. 

I was born in Taylor County 
Sometime before the war, 

I married in Campbellsville, 
And I 've got a mother-in-law. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 281 

I can ride a Texas bull, 

I can climb a buzz-saw, 
But God protect the country 

When I meet my mother-in-law. 

I 've seen the fossil mastodon 

And his stupendous jaw, 
It made me weep to see it — 

So like my mother-in-law ! 

I 've been among the Comanches, 

But never stood in awe 
Before the face of man or beast 

Till I met my mother-in-law. 

I 've been in bloody battles, 

In the thickest of the war. 
But a shell 's a thing to play with 

Beside a mother-in-law. 

I 've been in the menagerie. 

All 's to be seen I saw. 
But the hyena took my fancy — 

Most like my mother-in-law ! 

I've thought about the devil, 

When conscious sin did gnaw, 
But he at least had one peace — 

Never a mother-in-law. 



MONEY. 



Money is the mighty prince 
That rules o'er the nation, 

It can grant your behest 
To ev'ry rank and station, 



282 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

From an accoucheur's fee 
To religious consolation. 

It 's a balm for all your grief, 
It sweetens all your woes, 

Puts the raiment on your back 
And stockings on your toes, 

It 's the talismanic sesame 
That opes society's doors. 

'T will give you home, comfort, and ease 

Of life in every feature, 
'T will help you to get a Avife 

And then to impeach her ; 
With it you may bribe the devil, 

And the devil bribe the preacher. 

It will likewise save your neck 
From the law's raging strife. 

It can lead you safely through 
All of its passions rife ; 

Money is the winning card 
In ev'ry game of life. 

Money is a sovereign grand. 
Whether in bonds on stocks. 

For weal or woe 't is supreme 
In life's contending shocks. 

And church and state are both alike. 
One great missionary -box. 

You ragged saints boast a grace 
A wretched poverty's given. 

And count it luck that wicked fate 
'Gainst all your plans has striven. 

For money opens every gate 
Except the gate of heaven. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 283 

THE DYSPEPTIC. 

His very soul was born in fear, 

A bloody God stood o'er him, 
A flaming hell with tortures dire 

Yawned darkly before him ; 
His sun arose on fields of blood. 

His moon went down in woe. 
Every cloud was a storm cloud 

With never a friendly bow. 

When he essayed the religious, 

His torturing pains to beguile. 
He saw blood from Calvary stream, 

But all mixed up with bile ; 
In those dark thoughts that diagnose 

A stomach ill at ease, 
He saw his God in dusky frowns 

He never could appease. 

With head downcast and face severe, 

In gloomy tones he speaks, 
For every smile he sheds a tear 

To efface it from his cheeks ; 
He bows like one in funeral train, 

The last sad rites to honor, 
Who follows closely on the bier, 

The only friend and mourner. 

Now, when he 's bilious and morose, 

'T is heavenly inspiring 
To listen to his funeral groans 

About the dead and dying ; 
And what to me is stranger still. 

These frowns upon his face 



284 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Are worshiped by the common herd 
As evidence of grace. 

Melancholia is superstitious, 

And vice versa they, 
He who nurses an inward grief 

Must give it vent some way ; 
But why think we strange of deed 

With eccentric passion fraught, 
The blood that courses thro' the brain 

Gives color to the thought. 



IS IT NOT ENOUGH, MY BROTHERS? 

Is it not enough, my brothers, 

We accept the terms of battle, 
Are we indeed Freedom's peers, 

Or are we slavish cattle ? 
Is it not enough, my brothers, 

We quail before your blows, 
Must we dismantle Southern graves 

To please our Northern foes ? 

We 've felt the terrors of grim war, 

We shed our blood to satiate, 
We came again and humbly begg'd 

A home within the State ; 
We 're willing to forget the past. 

Willing to bury away its braves, 
But ask us not, O my brothers. 

To desecrate their graves ! 

We dearly love America, 
We regret its civil shame. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 285 

And tho' we are the vanquished 

We bear not all the blame ; 
We can not crown with infamy 

The heroes of its cause, 
Nor assign them to oblivion, 

Nor ask we for applause. 

We struck, my friends, as we thought right, 

The shells flew hot and fast, 
Nor till we could fight no more, 

Said we 't was our last ; 
But now extends the friendly hand 

'Cross the bloody chasm deep, 
May flowers bloom on ev'ry field 

Where the rival heroes sleep. 

And while the proudest Northern heart 

Rejoices o'er its loved braves, . 
Let children of the sunny South 

Reverence their fathers' graves ; 
Deck them with inglorious flowers 

And protect from ev'ry shame, 
Be they martyrs or be they knaves. 

They 're our father's bones the same. 

We bow before Fate's iron wheel, 

We shrink from war's alarms. 
In our bosoms the spirit o' pride 

Appeals no more to arms ; 
O'er our fathers' moss-grown graves, 

O'er long dark years of waste, 
We children oflfer hands and hearts 

In burial of the past. 



286 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

THE UNDERTAKER. 

Oh ! I 'm an undertaker 

Whom death has ne'er dismayed, 
I love to bury my friend — 

And such is my trade ; 
Tho' with mourners in distress 

J sometimes force my tears, 
'T is hard to weep, when trade 's good, 

O'er other people's cares. 

When all the people are healthy 

Doctors are very sad, 
When nations are religious 

Missionaries are mad ; 
Who blames an undertaker 

For being in a flurry 
When ev'ry body 's fat and well 

And no one 's to bury ! 

I know the hearse looks mournful 

With its long funeral train, 
I know the wails of bereavement 

Fill all your hearts with pain ; 
Man had as well be cheerful 

And in heart forgiving — 
There 's profit in ev'ry woe 

Where some make a living. 

I never but once felt sad 

With soul and heart's distress. 

It was when the tombstone man 
Condoled me on business ; 

For oh ! he looked so haggard. 
He made me to repent 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 287 

That I could n't bury myself 
And liuy a monument. 

'T is undertake or starve, sir, 

Which would you prefer? 
You can 't expect me to weep 

With ev'ry customer ; 
I do n't wish my friends to die, 

My bosom warmer throbs. 
But, if they wiU kick the bucket, 

Please give me the jobs. 



FORTUNE. 

Fortune is a fickle jade, 

A coquette of deceitful guile, 

Howe'er much she favor you. 
Beware her inconstant smile. 

To-day she smiles, to-morrow frowns, 
And laughs but to distress you, 

Still practicing deceitful wiles 
Even tho' she caress you. 

The dearest favors of her hand 
Are like the gaudy flower 

That blossoms forth in radiant hues 
To wither in an hour. 

Full off ye think her smiles secure. 

The fates in your behalf. 
When murky clouds are gathering 

Darkly beyond your path. 

Full oft her promised favors 
Are like a mirage fleet, 



288 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Leading on to a deeper woe, 
Mere specter of deceit. 

Oh ! know that fortune is fickle 
With her smiles and her frowns, 

And learn to take life easy then 
In all its ups and downs. 



KENTUCKY. 

Old Kentucky 's a saucy place, 
Her people are a hardy race, 
Ne'er rolled old Time thro' fairer scenes 
Than gild her thousand winding streams ; 
In cheek or brass, wise men or fools. 
We may succumb to foreign schools. 
But in some things we are bosses. 
At least in whiskies and horses — 
Whiskies and horses are true to 
Kentucky's boasted pride and beauty. 
'T is not poets nor statesmen grand 
Who spread our fame from land to land, 
Nature's grandeur and beauty 's filled 
With horses and copper-distilled ; 
Laugh who will at customs antique, 
At dwellers on each mountain peak. 
But even on the vintaged Rhine 
They lay aside the Bordeaux wine, 
Scotch ale and gins all to the shade. 
For whisky in Kentucky made. 
So far as empires spread their sway 
Or continents roll with the day. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 289 

Men use wines, opium, or hashish, 
Kentucky Bourbon ne'er can perish ; 
Others boast literary pride, 
Men of genius and culture wide, 
Philosophers, poets, statesmen, and dandies — 
Kentucky leads them all in flavored brandies. 



ROYALTY. 

Oh ! what are kings. 

What kind of earth, 
That to such things 

As royal birth, 
True hearts and brave, 

On bended knee. 
Must bow as slaves 

To majesty ? 

Does not one blood 

Through ev'ry heart 
Pour its crimson flood 

From life's first start ? 
What lights, what sparks, 

That may decide 
The lordly marks 

Of regal pride ? 

'Tis history's page, 

In kindling fires, 
Marks the lineage 

Of bloody sires ; 
'T is Freedom's wail 

By which we trace 
The bloody trail 

Of lordly race. 
25 



290 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

'T is tyranny's blood 

And liberty's groans 
Whence royal brood 

Secure their thrones ; 
Sad are the days, 

Degenerate the times, 
Children are praised 

For their sires' crimes. 

Are men but tools 

For ambition's good, 
To feed proud fools 

For sake of blood? 
Oh ! cruel 's the fate 

Allows such things, 
Burdens the state 

For pride of kings. 

My country pure. 

By heaven blessed. 
No titled grandeur 

Upon thy breast : 
Ev'ry man's descent 

Equal by birth, 
A citizen president 

Elected for Avorth. 

No lordly pleasures, 

Ignominious stains. 
Deplete thy treasures 

For blood in its veins ; 
Born equal and free. 

Thy maxim e'er rings. 
Life and liberty — 

Death to the kings ! 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 291 



EVOLUTION. 



First of all, old Chaos ruled supreme 
Where God before alone had been, 
Broad and deep in nebulous waste, 
Spx'ead through the dusky realms of space ; 
Then condensed and liquefied to run 
Into a central and molten sun, 
Till by centrifugal power it hurls 
To circling orbs, burning suns, and worlds. 
Hissing and steaming in fiery wrath. 
Earth flames a meteor 'long its path, 
Till by radiation the heat expires 
And a crust floats on internal flres ; 
Surging vapors in mad commotion 
Condense into a boiling ocean, 
The cooling ocean with it brings 
Organic life in myriad things. 
First to life, in point of time, 
'Mid ocean's waste, was primitive slime 
Washed from the sea-weeds and the rocks 
By sportive waves in unconscious shocks ; 
A greasy scum was old primitive dad. 
And his filthy lineage our sire monad, 
Whence, by cellular segmentation. 
Aggregation and proliferation, 
Where cells on cells are multiplied, 
Came man, creation's lord and pride: — 
Proud man, with all his God-like boast, 
Only condensed cellular chaos ! 
In centuries past, ere the tadpole 
Was father of the human soul, 
And this tadpole became a frog 
And hopped about thro' gloomy bog, 



292 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Contemptuously eyeing the snail 
That had neither vertebra or tail — 
For science could ne'er on him bestow 
The family pride of genxhs homo — 
From low to high, by easy gradation, 
Certain evolution marks creation : 
Tadpoles, snakes, fish, then quadruped, 
And so the proud lineage lead. 
As light gleam'd o'er dusky chasm 
Life enthused early protoplasm, 
Light, the flame bursting on creation, 
Life, the friction of cell proliferation. 
The kangaroo became the donkey. 
Then dropped his ears and was the monkey, 
The monkey curtailed, his skull to expand. 
Bloomed forth the perfect creature — man. 



INHUMANITY. 

Oh ! what avails the Christianity 

Of this our Bible land. 
Wherein so little humanity 

Thrives in the bosom of man. 

Self, the all-ruling passion, 
Guides the baleful star of life, 

And pride and avarice fashion 
All its seething strife. 

Wails of woe, tears of distress. 
Still forever fill the earth. 

The sorrows of the human breast 
Are as wide as mortal birth. 

Who heeds the plaintive groaniugs 
Bubbling from the broken heart ? 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 293 

Who hears the dh-e mournings 
That disease and want impart ? 

Low on beds of affliction lie 

The sick with sad hearts bleeding, 
A haughty Avorld passes by, 

Their cries and wants unheeding. 

By huts of poverty and wrong, 

Where famine broods hungry and gaunt, 

Proud millionaires pass along 
As if misery had no want ; 

By dens of infamy and shame. 

Where beauty sleeps in foul embrace. 

Self-righteousness pauses to blame, 
But ne'er with offers of peace. 

Men seeking for gold and pleasure, 

No diff'rence how dear the gains, 
Greedy avarice grasps the treasure 

Foul with dishonor's stains. 



KISSES. 



There is no joy to the heart so coy 
Like the thrill of a gentle kiss. 

Only stolen pleasure can fill the measure 
With its exquisite bliss. 

The gentle embi-ace, the smiling face, 
The eyes of love that greet you. 

The rosy lips with nectar drips 
Leaning half way to meet you. 

Oh, the thrill ! it seems to fill 
The soul with blissful alloy, 



294 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

To fondly press close to your breast 
The darling of your joy. 

If aught of heaven to mortals given 
In that sweet moment's confessed, 

So gently meek, with blushing cheek, 
Close she nestles to your breast. 

She sighs, "oh, don't!" we think we won't, 
But, lest those eyes betray us, 

They surely say indeed you may — 
Such looks never dismay us. 

Some Avill pout their red lips out 
And threaten vengeance loud — 

Don't be icy, just softly, nicely. 
There 's sunshine behind the cloud. 

E'en should they cry, who would deny, 
When Cupid's fancy rushes, 

To kiss lightly 'way the tears that stray 
Among the rosy blushes. 

There is no joy to the heart so coy. 
No moment so thoughtless of woe, 

As when lips sweet each other meet 
With softest touch and slow. 



CLOSE TO MY BREAST I CLASP MY 
DEAR. 

Close to my breast I clasp my dear, 

Her arms around me twine, 
She whispers softly in my ear, 
" Darling, I'm only thine." 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 295 

From off her lips' vermilion hue, 

Where honeyed sweets repose, 
I sip as bees would sip the dew 

From out the fragrant rose. 

Gentle breezes fraught with perfume 

Sweep o'er beds of floAvers, 
And rarest birds are all in tune, 

So pass the pleasant hours. 

First one fond clasp, then releasing, 

A blush, a kiss, and then 
Another clasp, kisses unceasing, 

With blushes strown between. 

The heaving breast, the gentle sigh, 

Eyes that languish calmly 
As silver moons in summer's sky 

When night is soft and balmy. 

Why talk to me of dreams of love? 

Oh! give me love that's real — 
Only cold philosophy can move 

To love that 's ideal — 

Not visions ethereal and bright. 

Fairies fed on flowers. 
Dancing where the silver moonlight 

Carpets fancy's bowers ; 

Not visions thin, like angel's wings, 

Nor shadowy like their faces. 
But flesh and blood that fondly clings 

Responsive to embraces. 

A throbbing heart, a glowing cheek, 

A warmth that may be felt. 
Sweet laughing eyes and lips that speak. 

And what they think they tell 't. 



296 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

ADIEU, MY LOVE, A LONG ADIEU. 

Adieu, my Love, a long adieu ! 

The wildest fancies of my heart 
Ne'er dreamed that thou wast untrue, 

Yet cruel fate decrees we part ; 
Still, though the world is broad and wide, 

Where'er by chance I'm doomed to rove, 
Thou '11 be my constant thought, my pride, 

My song, my dream, and my love. 

There are some souls to love benighted. 

And some have loved but loved in vain, 
The sad love that has been slighted 

Wrings the heart with bitter pain ; 
But if there is anguish of heart, 

The bitterest mortals e'er endure, 
'T is when love from love must part, 

Mutual, confiding, and true. 

There's no woe to mortals given, 

In bereavement's torturing arts. 
Like the grief that once has riven 

The tender chords of entwining hearts ; 
The human soul has no feeling, 

In sorrow's bitterest scope, 
To keen sensibilities appealing. 

Than when bereft of love and hope. 

There is a grief too deep for tears, 

Feelings that can find no vents, 
Where woe smothers the soul with fears 

And bleeds the heart in silence ; 
Farewell, my Love, farewell forever. 

Till we meet never more to part ! 
Naught can stay the powers that sever 

Or heal the grief that wounds my heart. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 297 

THE INVALID. 

Oh! here I lie and languish, 

While 'long each nerve and vein 
Disease throbs in feverish anguish 

And darts with fiery pain ; 
Sometimes I cry, when wond'ring why 

My strange fate is given, 
Is it because of broken laws 

Or is 't the hand of Heaven ? 

Poor, miserable, emaciated wretch, 

My time moves slowly away. 
Torturing hours lengthen to months 

As drags the weary day ; 
And as the night takes its flight 

I pray for the morrow. 
The morrows come in sick'ning gloom. 

And all of life is sorrow. 

Thus wearily from year to year 

Life drags its skeleton along, 
As if I was but lingering here 

To brood o'er Nature's wrong. 
Soothing my cares with briny tears, 

Cheering my drooping soul 
By carving groans on tombstones 

While waiting for my goal. 

I welcome death, and I brave 

The sickly fears of those who weep. 
There is a peace within the grave, 

A sweet, long, and dreamless sleep ; 
There in its peace each pain '11 cease 

And in oblivion rest. 
My God, enfold my immortal soul 

Peacefully to Thy breast! 
26 



298 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

THE TRAGEDY. 

She languished in an easy chair, 
Slovenly dressed, disheveled her hair, 
A graceful mien and queenly air, 

Sporting her swab and snufF; 
Spit in the box, and rubbed her teeth 
Till juice covered her chin beneath. 
Stained her cheeks and fumed her breath. 

But still 't was not enough. 

She propped her feet 'gainst the door, 
Squirted ambier over the floor. 
She fell asleep and then did snore, 

And dreamed the strangest dream ; 
She thought the world 'd come to an end 
And she herself was to judge men. 
There was no vice they could defend 

'Gainst condemnation keen. 

First came whisky delirium tremens, 
She hailed vicegerent of demons, . 
Pronounced his doom with vehemence 

To dusky realms below ; 
But shook her sleep the demon base, 
Glared wildly with a fiendish face. 
Denied her right to judge his case 

With furious uproar. 

High on her throne in state sublime 
She mocked at his infernal crime, 
The prince of woe in ev'ry clime 

Where there were souls to rob ; 
A frightful vision in her dream. 
The demon throttled her 'twould seem. 
She woke in terror with a scream — 

She had swallow'd her swab. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 299 

ABSTRACTION. 

To-night, as I sit thinking, 
In my thoughts drinking 

The unfathomed depths of the sky, 
Out through dreary waste. 
Out through boundless space 

My unfettered fancies fly ; 

Of worlds in circling flight, 
Of time that 's infinite, 

I think whence they all began; 
From this broad career, 
Stoop to this little sphere 

To regard the state of man. 

Some tiny unseen sprite, 
From out the shades of night, 

Whispers to my abstracted mind, 
How little art thou, man, 
Insignificant thy plan 

Measured by Nature sublime ; 

But an atom, a mite 
In space that 's infinite 

In weary waste of years forlorn, 
Flickering spark of light 
In an eternal night, 

A flash, and deep darkness rolls on. 

But, lest our conscience belies, . 
A still small voice only cries, 

From all these thy soul '11 sever ; 
They indeed shall pass away 
Till forgotten their day. 

Thou shalt live with God forever. 



300 RUSTIC RHYMES. 



THE BLIND MAN. 

Stranger, these shrunken, sightless orbs 

No radiant beauties trace, 
But only rayless gloom absorbs 

The blackest realms of space ; 

The world in all its beauty sleeps, 

To me a sphere of gloom. 
Not one ray its shadow sweeps 

E'en at the brightest noon. 

Still, though I catch the mellow sound 
When 'wakes the world of light, 

And day spreads its gladness around 
Where all to me is night, 

Into these weeping eye-balls white 

No earthly vision 's given, 
I muse upon the glorious sight 

As I muse upon the heaven. 

But in hope's sweet companion, faith, 

The darkest bosom's light 
Is solace for a blacker death 

Than this — my life of night. 

An inward consciousness has told 
That, beyond the azured skies, 

A light shall dawn upon the soul 
Too bright for human eyes. 

How sweet to think I yet may trace, 
'Mid swelling joys profound. 

The contour of each friendly face 
Known only now by sound ; 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 301 

And when the central suns shall fade 

In these dull eyes so blind, 
Bright as when first they were made 

The light of God shall shine. 



NATURE IS LIKE THE STORMY OCEAN. 

Nature is like the stormy ocean, 

Ever surging at its will, 
Rolling in perpetual motion, 

A life that 's never still. 

Drifting on its current, sent 

Like cloud athwart the sky, 
Mere creatures of the element, 

We rest only to die. 

Life is like the raging storm, 

The roaring thunder's strife. 
E'en the blood our bosoms warm 

Courses in streaming life. 

Our restless hearts are beating 

In rhythm to each breath. 
Nature's great lesson repeating, 

A calm is certain death. 

From creation's stormy birth 

Unceasing motion 's rife. 
As the circling flight of earth. 

So moves the course of life. 

So the thoughts of men are shifting 

On thought's restless ocean, 
Like the wild currents drifting 

By winds iu commotion. 



302 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Think not 't is a discordant chime 
That bids Nature ne'er pause, 

But a harmonious God sublime, 
Immutable His laws. 

Impious mau, canst thou not find 
Engraved ou life's dark uight 

The movement of a hand divine, 
Ruling in love and might ? 



BE KIND TO THE LIGHTNING-ROD MAN. 

Be kind to the lightning-l-od man. 

Now, that he is dead, 
Let them tread softly around 

Who 've no tears to shed. 

Perhaps, in the far-off West, 

A fond sister or brother 
Lift him on their prayers — 

Perhaps 't is a mother. 

Chilled in death's cold embrace 

By Mercy's decree willed. 
Wound up for a thousand years, 

But now forever stilled. 

Oh ! let not inquisitive man 

Disturb his quiet sleep, 
Bury him 'neath the willows 

And plant him very deep ; 

Place a rod uj^on his tomb 

And eiHtaph his sand, 
To warn the book agent 

And patent medicine man. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 303 



GIVE ME DRINK, OH, GIVE ME DRINK! 

Give me drink, oh, give me drink! 
Why speak to me of souls who sink 

Into hell? 
Why speak to me of siu and shame ? 
Through my veins there rolls a flame. 
And fiery serpents hissing proclaim 

Its magic spell. 

Give me drink, oh, give me drink ! 
I stand upon eternity's brink. 

My soul in sorrow. 
For its magic spell has bound me. 
Like a serpent coiled around me ; 
Give me drink and I will drown the 

Burning horror. 

Give me drink, oh, give me drink ! 
Blear-eyed demons laughing, wink 

At my pains ; 
Though still living yet I 'm cursed, 
A slave to a frenzied thirst, 
I scorn its power but can not burst 

Its chains. 

Give me drink, oh, give me drink! 
Sure 't is hell enough I think 

Manifest ; 
Why speak to me of burning fire? 
My soul 's bound l)y fierce desire. 
My thirst kindles a demon's ire 

In mv breast. 



304 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Give me drink, oh, give me drink ! 
Among its fumes let me sink, 

Ne'er returning ; 
A slavish thirst, beastly pleasure — 
Yet I'd squander heaven's treasure 
And all eternity can ineasure 

To soothe its burning. 



WHY SHOULD WE GROW FAINT- 
HEARTED? 

Why should we grow faint-hearted 

Whene'er our sorroAVS come ? 
Is the light without its shadow. 

The calm without its storm? 
The darksome winter dreary, 

With its somber hours. 
Has chained in its icy arms 

Spring-time's joyous flowers ; 

And e'en the gladsome sunshine 

That cheers the harvest feast. 
But for clouds that bring us rain 

Would smile on desert waste. 
You may not always see the light 

Beam through the dusky clouds 
When black despair hangs its drapery 

Round you in mystic shrouds. 

There 's light beyond the darkness 

The eye can not traverse, 
It will shine round you brightly 

When the clouds all disperse ; 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 305 

You may think the flowers dead 

And buried 'neath the snow, 
They 're waiting the spring-time 

To gather strength and grow ; 

You may think the night eternal 

While waiting for the daAvn, 
All its darkness will melt away 

Before the rosy morn ; 
You may think the hand unkind 

That fills your bed with thorns 
When affliction Aveighs heavily 

Ulion your tortured bones. 

Cheer up, brothers, be not dismayed, 

Whate'er fate has given, 
Howe'er the world may frown and hate 

Trust the smiles of heaven ! 
Think not that you are alone, 

Unanswered in your prayer. 
When you kneel to God and Heaven, 

Sure there is mercy there. 



LITTLE INNOCENT. 

A little girl approached the coffin 
Where mother bow'd her head, 
"Kiss me, papa, kiss me, papa," 
Little Innocent said; 
But ne'er a word from the coffin — 
Her 2)apa was dead. 

She followed the funeral train 
Quietly to the graveyard ; 



306 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

She saw a new grave yawning deep 
Within the grassy sward, 

She saw the coffin lowered down 
And heard each falling clod; 

She looked into her mother's eyes, 
She heard her plaintive groan, 

Then gazed into the filling grave 
Where fast the sod was thrown ; 

And said she, with a swelling heart, 

"Papa's gone, papa's gone." 

In their bereavement all alone. 
When the sad day had gone, 

Little Innocent said to her ma, 
•Seated by the hearth-stone : 
" Bad men put pajm in a hole, 

Let's go and bring him home." 



THE CAMP MEETING. 

The people herd in from afar 

Thro' the rain or sleetings, 
The preachers too are gathering there 

To protract the meetings ; 
The saints have got their armors on. 

You may hear them shouting. 
At ev'ry blast of gospel gun 

Old Satan is routing. 

Some do shout and some do faint, 

Some teach the beginner, 
While some heat up the icy saint. 

Some alarm the sinner ; 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 307' 

Some clap their hands, some pull their hair, 

All like mad bulls roaring, 
And some by preach and some by prayer 

Keep the spirit going. 

Till soon the mourner's bench along 

Bow souls in sad contrition, 
And while the priest beats on the gong 

The spirit works its mission ; 
Around the saints stand in array, 

Of saints there are no lack, 
Some point the penitent the way, 

Some beat him on the back. 

With howls and shouts and horrid din, 

Lest wicked spirits revel, 
They frighten 'way the monster, sin, 

And vanquish the Devil ; 
They clap their hands, and round and round . 

They march and sing and pray. 
To coax the gentle spirit down 

While devils are at bay. 

But stoop, ye angels from the skies. 

Hush, ye Aviuds, your humming too, 
See an athlete from the altar rise. 

See his soul is coming through ! 
Behold ! he sweats, he foams, he growls, , 

But wait, you 'II see him prance. 
He shakes himself and then he howls 

Till trees and fences dance. 

And now the good work has begun, 

The Devil 's in a flurry. 
Incessant roars the gospel gun. 

They come through in a hurry ; 



308 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

As the flaming contagions spread 
Demons are laughed to scorn, 

Every saint is hot till red 
And souls on souls are born. 

Resonant woods and fields around 

With reverberation, 
From hills and cliffs roll back in sound 

Wild echoes of damnation, 
As shouts each saint or howls each fiend 

In search of new delusions, 
Till all Bedlam seems pantomimed 

In raging confusions. 



TO SOME YOUNO GIRLS ON THEIR RE- 
QUEST FOR A SONG. 

You ask me for a song, sweet girls, 

Yet say not what to sing, 
From pretty faces wreathed in curls 

The sweetest fancies spring ; 
If I should sing my heart would move 

At what your presence' bring, 
I 'd woo the muse that sings of love, 

Nor other song could sing. 

Who has looked on pretty faces 

And yet controlled his will, 
Who beheld such charming graces 

And never felt their thrill ? 
No poet he in Nature's thoughts, 

For true beauties inspire. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 309 

Wild discord screaks in broken notes 
From off his rusty lyre. 

Nature has in this serred world 

Many a vision bright, 
But nothing like a fair, sweet girl, 

Whose soul and heart are right ; 
How innocent and artless she, 

Unstained by selfish guiles. 
From cunning and deception free, 

Are all her pleasant smiles. 

When life's bitter cup 's filled with grief, 

There 's comfort in her tears, 
When filled with joy, however brief, 

She smiles upon our cares ; 
She has a sigh for all our fears, 

A smile for ev'ry bliss. 
What woes she may not drown in tears. 

She smothers with her kiss. 

Oh then, sweet girls, know well the part 

Nature's bounty 's given, 
The treasures of a pure heart 

Bear exchange in heaven ; 
Remember that the fairest face 

Will wither and decay. 
The immortal mind by God's grace 

Alone may live for aye. 

There is a beauty hid within, 

A beauty of the heart, 
That will outshine the fairest skin 

Polished by human art ; 
For that beauty, my dear sweet girls, 

I'd have you strive and win. 



310 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

A treasure worth a thousand worlds 
All wrapt in woe and sin. 

And now, sweet girls, I need not sing 

How much I wish you well, 
May roses 'long your pathway spring, 

Fairer than I can tell ; 
And ere touched by time's magic wand 

Withers ev'ry flower, 
May all your days and years expand 

In pleasure's sweetest bower. 



TO MISS MARY AND HER HORSE. 

We were called some miles in the country to dress a fractured 
limb. Miss Mary sent her riding horse for us to drive in oar 
huggy. When we arrived at the patient's house, Miss Mary very 
unceremoniously denumded her horse. We hired a mule, and got 
home as best we could. 

Our dear Miss Mary, 
Quite contrary, 

Left us in the cool. 
But a doctor 
Brooks no proctor. 

He can drive a mule. 

Called by duty, 
Defied by beauty, 

We felt just like a fool. 
And in the mud. 
Till another flood. 

Had stuck but for the mule. 

Formed so neatly, 
Divinely, sweetly. 

We bowed before her graces. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 311 

Only a horse 
Could mend our loss 
More than pretty faces. 

But we were spunky, 
We drove the donkey 

To the tune of many I'aps, 
For we were as gay 
As birds in May, 

You guess the reason perhaps. 

Cold is the heart 
That can impart 

Naught but its dreary gloom, 
That has no smile 
That may beguile 

The stranger, worn, from home. 

Now, dear Miss Mary, 
Even a faiiy 

May sometimes act amiss, 
But we forgive thee, 
Long, long live thee. 

Thine pe peace, content, and bliss. 

If some other day 
We come thy way 

We '11 be our own bosses, 
God bless thy soul ! 
Bet all thy gold. 

We '11 drive our own horses. 



312 RUSTIC RHYMES. 



THE JUDGMENT DAY. 

The judgment day has come at last, 
Time 's relegated to the past, 
Over earth's dark and howling waste 
Damnation broods on pinions black; 

Deep darkness hovers like a shroud 
Vailing the earth in mystic cloud. 
And groaning thunders trumpet loud 
The coming of our Lord and King. 

The quivering rocks are breaking, 
The mountains to and fro shaking, 
The earth trembling, rocking, quaking, 
Throughout all nature is convulsed. 

Hark ! the Lord of glory is come. 
He rides uj^on the thunder-storm, 
A vial of wrath He pours among 
All of the living sons of men. 

The bursting graves their dead outpour, 
The surging waves dash them ashore. 
Death and hell are forced to restore 
The bodies and the shrieking souls. 

The earth melts with a fervent heat, 
The heaven rolls a fiery sheet, 
One glance of God, ruin's complete, 
And all Nature's laws are chaos. 

But first before the judgment throne. 
With shouts of joy or bitter groan, 
From death, from hell, from heaven torn, 
The sons of Nature are arrayed ; 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 313 

The wicked flee in sore despair, 
Calling on rocks and mountains bare 
To hide them from the lightning glare 
Of God Almighty's searching eye ; 

The righteous with victorious song 
The sulphurous caves of hell prolong, 
Heaven echoes in thunders strong, 
"Oar Lord, the God of glory reigns." 

The judgment 's o'er, chaos supreme, 
Eternal night with dusky sheen 
Vails the scenes where time has been, 
But time is no more forever. 



THE TOOTHACHE. 

Why this infernal pang invented, 

Unless to try the soul demented? 

He who the live-long night can take, 

A martyr to its torturing ache, 

Nor curse, nor pray, nor make complaint. 

May well be canonized a saint. 



OLD AGE STEALS ON APACE. 

Old age steals on apace. 
Like shadows o'er the dial. 

Wrinkles creep 'long the face. 
Smothering ev'ry smile ; 

Glad hours of merry youth 
Are shadowed by decay, 
27 



314 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

Scarcely we feel its truth 

Before we pass away ; 
Gray -haired" men seared with age, 

'Long time's ruthless windings, 
Stand pictured on each page 

For solemn remindings ; 

We gaze on their white locks. 

And mark their shrunken forms. 
As on the riven rocks 

Weathered by ancient storms. 
They say with kindest smile : 
" Our days are few and cold ; 
Yesterday but a child, 

To-day Ave 're growing old, 
The morrow '11 blow its blast 

Above our quiet graves, 
Time's magic touch will waste 

Itself on other slaves. 

" Ye who in rosy youth 

Are chasing fleeting joys. 
Time 's pitiless and ruth 

Despite your phantom toys, 
Life's a delusive dream, 

An ignis fatuus bright, 
Ye chase the changing gleam » 

'Mid doubts dark as the night." 
Be our hope and faith bright, 

And when our sun may set 
We '11 look through its twilight 

With no thoughts of regret. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 315 



I LOVE YOU. 

I love you, I love you, my own sweet girl, 

With a passion that's stronger than death, 
I would not desert you for all the world, 

The world 'd be void of you bereft; 
You are my dream, my joy, my very life, 

Inspiration of my being. 
The hope that illumes the world's darkest strife, 

Before which all cares are fleeing. 



EPITAPH ON A PRIEST. 

Here lies a priest, peace to his soul. 

His life he misused it. 
We will not say, now that he's cold, 

That he e'er abused it. 
As 't is good for society 
To keep a great variety, 
So the priest and Devil betwixt 
The ins and outs of life commixed ; 
Weep not o'er his moldering form 
Wasted by the dissolving storm. 
We will all get together 

In the great great coming feast ; 
The priest leads the people 

And the Devil leads the priest. 



316 RUSTIC RHYMES. 



TO M- 



My sweet, my pretty, 
My darling M— , 

I will live for thee ; 
By this token 
My vow 's spoken, 
Ne'er to be broken 

Till all eternity. 

Yes, 't is heaven 
That has given 

Bright rays from above ; 
Thy smiles shining, 
My soul inclining, 
My heart entwining 

With tenderest love. 

By life's pleasure 
The greatest treasure 

Love can e'er impart ; 
I adore thee, 
I implore thee 
To restore me 

In thy loving heart. 

A passion blind, 
A fate unkind 

May drive hope away. 
Still in my soul 
Thou shalt hold 
Supreme control 

Fore'er and for aye. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 317 



HOW DOCTORS MAY MAKE MONEY. 

In answer to thu inquiry in the Louisville Medical News, 
"How Shall the Doctors make more Money?" 

To all the impecunious doctors, 

The pill and potion concoctors, 

Who 'd learn the secrets of money, 

To buy clothes or bread or honey : 

Money 's the root of all evil. 

Companion of saint and devil, 

Laws sacerdotal and civil, 

It brings all men to a level ; 

'Twill buy the soul, 'twill buy the brain, 

'T will nerve the heart and soothe its pain. 

To ev'ry rank it will instate — 

Money is king beyond debate. 

Ye noble sons of Esculapius 

Why whet your rusty rapiers ? 

Out of the ruts, out the bushes. 

Time moves as a mad stream rushes 

When 't would break its tortuous bed 

And flow^ where w'ilder waters lead ; 

Think ye the medical profession 

From other trade 's a digression ? 

Are ye saints on righteousness fed. 

Or lab'rers for your daily bread ? 

Are ye philanthropists instead, 

Poor toilers at an honest trade. 

Or are ye conceited asses, 

Moving round Avith saintly faces. 

Drumming for a social station 

'Bove poor doctors' elevation ? 

Humble your pride, be not conceited 

By pill and puke your rank 's meted ; 



318 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

What's the lot of pill refiners 

More 'n the lot of sausage-grinders ? 

Only trichinous sausage kills 

As surely as the doctor's pills ; 

Should he who kills be nobler bred 

Than he who but inters the dead, 

Or do ye think your bitter draught 

Gives out sweet thoughts when it is quaffed? 

Suppose your calomel and quinine 

Should hear the deaf or sight the blind, 

The ear-trumpeter has such fame, 

The spectacle-man does the same ; 

Or should he have the louder cheers 

Who washes wax out of our ears ? 

Shall we give only him the prize 

Who burns the warts off of our eyes ? 

Why talk about ' ' ethical code " 
Honor to rule your jealous brood ? 
Hippocrates, in all his dote. 
Invented this sham of a coat, 
A glittering gloss to gull the fools — 
The great would make the weak their tools. 
Do n't boast too much of your science, 
More in theory than appliance, 
Nor boast too high its modern mission 
Wrapped in ancient superstition ; 
The nine fried mice for epilepsy, 
Rooster testes for dyspepsia. 
Album grecum and urine spirits, 
Equal some of modern merits ; 
As to dung by eagles muted. 
Ne'er calomel more reputed. 
Then the spells, the charms, and sage looks 
Were worth a hundred modern books. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 319 

The question is, if there 's any, 
" How poor doctors may make money." 
Behold the toiler witli his spade, 
Doubtless he earns what he has made ; 
Behold the cobbler driving pegs. 
And so he lives, unless he begs ; 
See the smith, strong as a lion, 
Beats his wealth from steel and iron ; 
Hear the priest in fervent desire. 
Makes his living howling hell fire ; 
See the lawyer frauds concealing, 
Help other rogues by his stealing ; 
To such like ways you may appeal. 
To honest work or legal steal. 
The priest 's a mule of feeble bray, 
There 's little made by preach or pray ; 
As to the smith and his proctors. 
They 're most too honest for doctors. 
True, there is fraud in ev'ry field, 
But from bad pills there 's no appeal ; 
The world, 't is true, has cash to waste, 
But not on the mere pride of caste. 
Who 'd live by what he is knowing 
Must keep his horn fore'er blowing ; 
Heed not professional disputing. 
For i)atients not ethics tooting, 
Then throw your code where the pig swills 
And make your living selling pills. 
To younger doctors this I say, 
Advertise in a business way, 
So many a man wins cash respects 
Who 'd starve upon jealous ethics ; 
Sure ye 're not a lot of donkeys 
Tt) be rode by menagerie monkeys, 



320 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

To sit and starve licking your paws 

O'er some old Hippocratic laws. 

This world is like a busy hive, 

The drones must die, toilers survive, 

.But royal rogues to honor born — 

Ev'ry chicken must scratch his own corn. 



SENTIMENTS OF THE YOUNG MISS. 

Will not some beau his time forego. 

By his presence cheer me, 
I live alone at my father's home, 

Never a beau comes near me. 

I'm sweet sixteen, close in between 

My maiden and womanhood, 
I curl my tresses, I wear long dresses. 

And really I think I should. 

I've a pretty face, a delicate waist, 

A heart in which no care is ; 
And then my feet are trim and neat, 

My lij)s are just like cherries. 

With those I meet out on the street 

I have never learned to flirt, 
I've had no flame that's worth the name, 

My heart is whole and unhurt. 

Although I'm shy, I'd not deny 
My smiles if you 'd be basking ; 

Just of the age the female sage 
Gives her heart for the asking. 

No studied art to ensnare the heart 
With cold passions distressing, 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 321 

You name the day, I '11 come half way, 
And we '11 ask papa's blessing. 

A lock of hair, a kiss as rare, 

I freely will bestow them ; 
An elderly miss would frown at this 

Awful breach of decorum. 

When I am older and my heart colder, 

Perhaps I too will refuse, 
Like elder maidens with ethics laden, 

And stand on my P's and Q's. 



A NEGRO'S SERMON ON A THEOLOGY WITH- 
OUT A HELL, AND THE NEW VERSION 
OF THE TESTAMENT. 

Come boss, I 's hearn dat de gospel 

Am chang'd much its station, 
What den '11 follow, who can tell, 

De next improved translation ; 
Old hell am tumbled to hades, 

De fires am all gone out, 
De birds singin' in de shade-trees 

Whar de 'ternal waters spout. 

Some 'tend de debel howls no more, 

Dat he am all a miff, 
White folks hab improvised his roar 

To skeer poor niggers wiff; 
Folks, if you stop the debel's snort 

De church hab no correction, 
De mission money will be short, 

Hen-roosts widout protection. 
28 



322 RUSTIC RHYMES. 

White priests may a livin' pursue 

Drummin' politic cabal, 
What '11 de poor nigger preachers do 

Widout their hell and debel ? 
Dese fifty years I 's sarved de Lord 

Nor compromised wid fashions, 
Still I propose to preach de word 

Dat brings de most rations. 

Why talk about de golden harp 

An' leab out de Old Scratch ? 
De nigger 'rise and wiff a yarp 

Go straight for your mellyun patch ; 
Why talk about de radiant skies 

Widout an impious snake? 
If you 'd fotch tears in nigger's eyes 

Talk 'bout de fiery lake, 

I'll get me a keg of brimstone, 

Preach 'bout holy 'lection, 
And when dem niggers howl and groan 

I '11 take up de collection ; 
I '11 paint de debel wifF big horns, 

A hell dat am not funny, 
Take possum hide, ingans, or corn, 

When dey re short ob money. 

Now all you priests who preach like goats, 

Widout a hell for sinners, 
You '11 get no more black cloth coats 

Nor chickens for your dinners, 
De empty mission box repeating 

Your empty stomach's features ; 
Give me a hell hot, still heating. 

To fatten up de preachers. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 323 

THE GRAVE OF THE INDIAN CHIEF, IN THE 

INDIAN GRAVEYARD ON GREEN 

RIVER, KENTUCKY. 

'Tis only a mound, a grassy mound, 

Hid deep in the wilds away, 
A few rude flints are scattered round — 

Relics of another day — 

Near the cliffs where Green River flows. 

But above its highest tide, 
Where the tall oak heavenward grows 

And spreads far its branches wide; 

Here, in a quiet mound, there sleeps 

A prince, the chief of his tribe. 
Where only the midnight wind weeps 

In cadence with the dark tide. 

In years far passed and gone for aye, 
• Ere white man had trod the ground, 
He led his braves in fierce array 
O'er the hills and valleys round. 

In these streams he netted for fish, 
And on these hills chased the deer, 

And 't was his hope, his fondest wish. 
To have his bones buried here ; 

For here his father's manes repose. 
And here rest many true liraves. 

Whom legends dark will ne'er disclose, 
Brooding fore'er 'bove their graves. 

So when his soul had ta'en its flight 
To dark realms of the never, 



324 R USTIC RHYMES. 

They buried him too in this lone site — 
Here let him rest forever. 

But round each cliff and stream and hill 
Gather their shadowy forms, 

Where sounded once their war-songs shrill 
Or calumet curled its fumes. 

But let them rest here in each mound, 
Disturb not their quiet graves, 

They sleep where death stills all renown 
Of mighty chieftain and braves. 

No more the echoing wilds round 
Resound to their martial tread, 

They rest within their ancient ground. 
Numbered with the millions dead. 

I^ow none may tell their tales of strife, 
Their sad hopes or loves or feuds. 

Nor Avake again the scenes of life 
That once broke this solitude. 



NIHILISM. 



Hark ! the dynamite bomb 
From its secret cave ! 

'T is the cry of opi^ression. 
The wail of the slave. 

Let the tyrants tremble 
In proud opulence, 

The king has his power, 
The slave his defense. 



RUSTIC RHYMES. 325 

'T is music, 't is music ! 

In thunders let 't ring, 
The people's replying 

To rights of the king. 

All the powers of heaven, 

Nor terrors of hell 
Bristling with bayonets, 

Can cool the hot shell. 

Though the kings are divine 

In blood and in bones, 
The millions are enslaved 

To prop up their thrones. 

Call 't a fiend if you will, 

The dynamite bomb. 
'T is Liberty's groanings 

From its darkest tomb. 

Slaves may languish in chains 

Or starve in dark cells. 
But Oppression's last wail 

Is a wail of shells. 




^& 




